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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

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AN  ENGLISH 
HONEYMOON 


By  Anne    Hollingsworth    Wharton 


Italian  Days  and  Ways.  Decorated  title 
and  8 illustrations.  i2mo.  Cloth, extra, $1.50 
ntt. 

Social  Life  in  the  Early  Republic. 
Profusely  illustrated.  8vo.  Buckram, gilt  top, 
uncut  edges,  jj.oo  noy  half  levant,  J^.oo  n<(. 

Salons,  Colonial  and  Republican.  Pro- 
fusely illustrated.  8vo.  Buckram,  ^3.oojtbre«- 
quaiters  levant,  |6.oo. 

Heirlooms  in  Miniatures.  Profusely  illnt- 
trated.  8vo.  Buckram,  I3.00;  tbree-<iuarters 
levant,  ^.00. 

Through  Colonial  Doorways.  Illustrated, 
itmo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

Colonial  Days  and  Dames.  Illustrated, 
limo.     Cloth,  |i. 25. 

A  Last  Century  Maid.  Illustrated.  8»o. 
Cloth,  |i.2S. 


.r:^«-T77 


<^^  0/*.T:!><'.    LitiHM.: 


'^  AN  ENGLISH  ^ 
HONEYMOON 

By 

Anne  Hollingsworth  Wharton 

^/VA  Illustrations 


PHILADELPHIA  AND  LONDON 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY 

MCMVIII 


COPTRIGRT,  1908 
By   J.  B.  LiPPINCOTT   COHPAKT 


PnblUhed  November,  1908 


Printed  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 
The  iVashingtoH  Square  Press 
Philadelphia,    U.  S.   A. 


CONTENTS 


I  PAGE 

WEDDING   BELLS   AND   CANTERBURY   BELLS 9 

II 
A   MOTOR   FLIGHT   INTO  THE   PAST 37 

III 
ZELPHINE'S  wedding   JOURNEY 61 

IV 

IN  WARWICKSHIRE 80 

V 
A  QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE Ill 

VI 
WHERE   POETS   LIVED   AND   LOVED 128 

VII 
ROMAN   ENGLAND 149 

VIII 
SIX  DAYS  IN  LONDON 185 

IX 

STORIED  WINDOWS  RICHLY  DIQHT 216 

X 

GLASTONBURY'S  SHRINE 240 

XI 

"the  land  OP  LORNA  DOONE  " 259 

XII 

DUNDAGEL  BY  THE  CORNISH  SEA 278 

XIII 
A  HIGHWAY  OP  KINGS '. .    295 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


A  DEVONSHIRE  LANE,  NEAR  LYNTON .Frontispiece 

CANTERBURY  CATHEDRAL  FROM  THE  DEAN's  GARDEN 16 

"  TRANSEPT  OP  THE  MARTYRDOM,"  CANTERBURY 26 

JANE  Austen's  house,  Winchester 52 

COURT  OF  lord   LETCESTEK  HOSPITAL 90 

jordans  with  the  penn  graves 118 

interior  op  meeting  house  at  jordans 118 

bydal  water  with  louqhrigg  rising  above  it 132 

Wordsworth's  study,  dove  cottage 138 

doorway  op  tudor  manor  house,  york 159 

fountain  court,  london 198 

the  isis  by  iffley  mill 220 

dining  hall  op  oriel  college 224 

glastonbury  abbey,  interior  op  chapel  op  st.  joseph .  .  .  250 

Shelley's  cottage,  lynmouth 275 

THE  post  OFFICE  AT  TINTAGEL 282 

bzbter  cathedral,  west  front 297 


2138844 


AN    ENGLISH 
HONEYMOON 


I 

WEDDING  BELLS  AND  CANTERBURY  BELLS 

Mrs.  Walter  Leonard  to  Mrs.  Allan  Bamsay. 

Fleur-de-Lys,  Canterbury,  July  12th. 

I  HAVE  missed  you,  dear  Margaret,  ever  since 
Walter  and  I  waved  our  farewells  to  you  from 
Charing  Cross  station.  This  is  strictly  true, 
and  if  you  do  not  believe  me  I  shall  conclude 
that  you  are  so  entirely  absorbed  in  your  pres- 
ent happiness  that  you  have  never  given  me 
more  than  a  passing  thought  since  you  and 
Allan  set  your  faces  toward  Italy. 

Does  not  the  wedding  at  St.  George's,  Han- 
over Square,  now  seem  like  a  dream?  And  was 
it  not  delightful  to  have  such  friendly  faces 
around  us  as  those  of  the  Haldanes  and  Mrs. 
Coxe,  and  Ludovico,  and,  not  the  least  welcome, 
that  of  my  brother  Archie?  It  was  almost 
worth  being  married  to  bring  Archie  over  here 
for  a  holiday. 

9 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

All  other  wedding  breakfasts  will  seem  flat, 
dull,  and  commonplace  in  comparison  with  that 
imique  little  feast  of  ours  at  the  Star  and  Gar- 
ter. I  fear  that  neither  of  us  could  bear  a  cross- 
examination  upon  the  menu,  but  the  pretty 
room  decorated  with  sweet-peas,  the  windows 
looking  out  upon  the  green  slope  of  Richmond 
Hill  with  the  slow-going  Thames  beneath,  are 
still  vivid  pictures  in  my  mind.  I  do,  however, 
remember  some  huge  strawberries  on  the  table, 
the  largest  and  reddest  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
some  delicious  little  cakes  called  **maids- 
of-honor,"  which  seemed  made  expressly  for 
our  most  charming  *'maid-of-all-work,*'  as 
Archie  calls  Angela,  insisting  that  she  is  a 
**  general  utility  **  because  she  waited  on  two 
brides  at  the  same  time.  It  was  a  sufficiently 
unconventional  breakfast  to  suit  such  veritable 
Bohemians  as  ourselves,  and  how  misleading 
our  simple  travelling  dresses  were,  so  different 
from  the  gorgeous  going-away  gowns,  with  no 
end  of  white  veils  and  feather  boas,  that  our 
English  cousins  delight  in!  We  were  all  abso- 
lutely above  suspicion  until  Archie  began  to 
propose  healths.  Walter  says  he  shall  never 
forget  the  expression  of  the  waiter's  face  when 
it  suddenly  dawned  upon  him  that  ours  was  a 
bridal  party.    He  nearly  dropped  his  platter 

10 


WEDDING   BELLS 


of  soles,  the  crowning  glory  of  the  feast. 
Archie's  contrite  face,  when  he  suddenly  real- 
ized what  he  had  done,  was  quite  as  entertain- 
ing to  me.  But  his  happy  thought  of  a  drive 
to  Twickenham  through  Bushy  Park  and  a 
stroll  by  the  Thames  and  a  visit  to  Pope's  old 
church  surely  made  amends  for  all  indiscre- 
tions, especially  as  every  one  thought  that  he 
was  the  groom  and  Angela  his  blushing  bride. 
Do  you  remember  how  the  waiters  scrambled 
and  fell  over  each  other  trying  to  open  the  car- 
riage doors  for  her? 

Shall  you  ever  forget  the  delight  of  cross- 
ing the  ferry  in  the  little  boat,  and  how  pleased 
the  boatmen  looked  when  Angela  sang  *  *  Twick- 
enham Ferry"  and  we  all  joined  in  the  chorus? 
That  July  day,  followed  by  the  lovely  long 
twilight  on  the  river,  was  really  too  short  for 
all  the  pleasure  that  we  crowded  into  it. 

Now  that  you  have  left  us,  we  are  all  scat- 
tering in  different  directions.  Mrs.  Coxe  has 
decided  to  go  to  Carlsbad  with  the  Haldanes, 
so  they  are  quite  sure  to  be  well  entertained. 
My  brother  enjoys  London  above  every  place 
else,  like  most  men  and  some  women;  but  he 
feels  it  his  bounden  duty  to  go  to  Zurich  to  pay 
his  respects  to  some  great  German  M.D.,  with 
whom  he  has  been  in  correspondence, — and, 

11 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

then,  as  Memling  is  his  latest  fad,  he  wants  to 
have  a  day  in  Bruges  en  route,  to  see  the  won- 
derful Memlings  there,  especially  the  St.  Ursula 
series.  I  tell  him  that  he  should  prepare  him- 
self for  the  St.  Ursula  legend  by  going  first  to 
Winchester,  from  whence  St.  Ursula  and  her 
noble  virgins  started  upon  their  pilgrimage,  as 
he  will  be  sure  to  see  their  poor  bones  when 
he  goes  up  the  Ehine  to  Cologne.  "We  should 
love  to  take  this  trip  with  Archie,  if  he  were  not 
so  exclusive  in  his  tastes,  quite  flatly  declining 
to  travel  with  Walter  and  me.  If  we  only  had 
a  little  more  time,  we  might  possibly  overcome 
Archie's  objections  to  the  society  of  the  newly 
married  and  insist  upon  journeying  with  him, 
but  Walter  has  certain  dates  to  keep  at  Cam- 
bridge and  Oxford, — and,  then,  does  anyone 
ever  have  enough  time  over  here,  except,  of 
course,  a  few  unfortunates  who  don't  know  how 
to  use  it? 

Archie  finally  consented  to  accompany  us  as 
far  as  Canterbury,  and  is  enjoying  this  won- 
derful old  town  as  much  as  we  are.  He  is  really 
an  ideal  companion  for  a  Canterbury  pilgrim- 
age, as  he  has  always  been  so  fond  of  the 
Tales  and  has  his  Chaucer  at  the  tip  of  his 
tongue.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  what 
the  average  man  knows  he  knows  more  accu- 

12 


WEDDING   BELLS 


rately  and  definitely  than  the  average  woman? 
Now  pray  do  not  read  this  part  of  my  letter 
to  Allan ;  I  certainly  do  not  intend  to  admit  this 
to  my  companions;  not,  of  course,  that  it  ap- 
plies to  the  men  of  our  families,  as  they  are 
naturally  above  the  average,  but  what  these 
two  men  have  unearthed  about  the  antiquities 
of  Canterbury  would  surprise  you.  I  really 
think  that  they  are  both  bom  archaeologists  who 
have  mistaken  their  callings  by  going  into 
medicine  and  the  law. 

We  are  not  strictly  speaking  in  pilgrim  sea- 
son, for  if  you  remember,  which  I  did  not  until 
Archie  quoted  the  passage,  it  was: 

"  When  that  Aprille  with  his  showeres  soothe 
The  drought  of  March  had  pierced  to  the  roote," 

that  the  motley  array  of  Pilgrims  set  forth 
from  the  Tabard  Inn,  in  Southwark,  to  visit  the 
shrine  of  St.  Thomas.  We,  for  our  part,  are 
very  glad  to  dispense  with  *' Aprille 's  show- 
eres,** which,  good  as  they  are  for  vegetation, 
are  somewhat  dampening  to  the  spirit  of  a 
modern  traveller.  Whatever  this  County  of 
Kent  may  be  in  spring-time,  and  I  fancy  it  is  a 
perfect  garden,  when  all  these  apple-  and 
cherry-trees  are  in  bloom,  now  in  summer,  it 
so  absolutely  fulfils  its  ancient  reputation  as  a 

13 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

land  overflowing  with  milk  and  honey  that  we 
can  well  believe,  with  Sir  Walter's  Wamba,  that 

"  For  a  yeoman  of  Kent,  with  his  yearly  rent, 
There  ne'er  was  a  widow  could  say  him  nay." 

Our  first  view  of  the  Cathedral  was  much  the 
same  as  that  of  Chaucer's  Pilgrims,  the  ex- 
terior being  very  little  changed  except  that  just 
now  the  beautiful  symmetrical  proportions  of 
the  building  and  its  chief  glory,  the  great  cen- 
tral tower,  Bell  Harry,  are  much  disfigured  by 
unsightly  scaffolding.  Even  so,  the  huge,  ex- 
quisitely proportioned  Gothic  tower,  with  its 
delicate  light  pinnacles,  the  smaller  tower,  the 
lofty  southwest  turret,  and  the  marvellously 
beautiful  and  dignified  Norman  porch  all  con- 
spire to  make  this  the  most  impressive  of  Eng- 
lish cathedrals. 

We  entered  the  Cathedral  enclosure,  as  all 
travellers  should,  by  way  of  Mercery  Lane, 
which  was  once,  I  believe,  an  outer  cemetery 
for  the  laity  and  is  now  a  crooked,  picturesque, 
old  street  whose  houses  with  projecting  upper 
stories  invite  constant  sociabiUty  among  their 
inmates.  In  the  shop- windows,  under  the  eaves, 
fascinating  photographs  and  souvenirs  are  dis- 
played. At  the  end  of  Mercery  Lane,  is  the 
lofty  Christ  Church  gate,    Prior    Goldstone's 

14 


WEDDING  BELLS 


gate,  which,  battered  and  weather-beaten  as  it 
is,  has  a  dignity  and  beauty  of  its  own.  The 
carvings  are  much  worn  away,  as  in  the  picture 
which  you  know  so  well,  and  small  wonder,  as 
the  gate  was  built  in  1517  and  Cromwell's  sol- 
diers had  their  turn  here  as  in  so  many  cathe- 
dral towns! 

Passing  under  the  richly  decorated  south 
porch,  we  entered  the  nave,  which,  despite  its 
lofty  arches  and  vast  proportions,  produces  an 
effect  of  wonderful  lightness  and  grace.  Be- 
yond the  screen,  with  its  delicate  lacelike 
tracery,  is  the  great  choir,  the  longest  in  Eng- 
land, Becket's  shrine,  the  goal  of  pilgrimage, 
and  most  of  the  interesting  monuments,  which 
we  could  not  see  because  there  was  a  service 
this  afternoon.  The  richly  decorated  monument 
of  Archbishop  Benson  is  in  striking  contrast 
to  the  severely  simple  tomb  and  small  kneeling 
figure  in  memory  of  Dean  Wotton,  one  of  the 
earliest  of  Canterbury's  deans.  Under  a  por- 
trait bust  of  Dean  Farrar's  fine  intellectual 
head  are  these  lines  of  Tennyson's : 

"  The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 
The  likest  God  within  the  soul?  " 

Whether  from  the  depredations  of  Henry 

15 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Vin  or  Cromwell's  "  Blue  Dick,"  none  of  the 
fine  old  painted  windows  in  the  nave  remain 
entire,  although  the  west  window  has  been  made 
of  fragments  of  the  ancient  glass.  So  we  may 
not  look  upon  the  same  scenes  that  so  puzzled 
*'the  Pardoner  and  the  Miller,"  when  they  fell 
to  wondering  what  the  pictures  represented, 
just  as  you  and  I  have  stood  and  wondered  be- 
fore many  an  ancient  window  in  Italy. 

" '  He  beareth  a  ball-staff ',  quoth  the  one, '  and  also  a  rake's 

end'; 
'  Thou  f  ailest ',  quoth  the  miller,  *  thou  hast  not  well  thy 

mind; 
It  is  a  spear,  if  thou  canst  see,  with  a  prick  set  before. 
To   push   adown  his  enemy,   and   through   the   shoulder 

bore.' " 

We  had  a  glimpse  of  the  Dean's  garden,  gay 
with  bud  and  blossom,  in  which  there  is  a 
charming  view  of  the  Cathedral  building,  and 
then  walking  around  the  close  and  entering 
by  the  Prior's  gate  to  the  Green  Court  we  had 
a  nearer  view  of  the  beautiful  Lavatory  Tower 
or  Baptistery,  one  of  the  loveliest  bits  of  mixed 
architecture,  in  which  Norman  and  Perpen- 
dicular combine  to  produce  a  most  harmonious 
effect.  We  wandered  on  into  the  great  cloister 
whose  richness  of  decoration  is  almost  un- 
equalled, and  on  through  the  great  ivy-draped 

16 


Canterbury  Cathedral   from  the   Dean's    Garden 


WEDDING   BELLS 


arch  to  the  fragmentary  but  altogether  beau- 
tiful remains  of  the  Monks'  Infirmary. 

It  is  not,  after  all,  the  grace  and  dignity  of 
architecture  or  the  richness  of  decoration  that 
most  appeals  to  us  here,  satisfying  as  they  both 
are;  it  is  all  the  weight  of  history  that  rushes 
over  us  in  this  ancient  town,  which  was  the  gate 
through  which  Christianity  and  the  arts  entered 
England.  And  yet  a  busy  modern  life  runs 
along  beside  these  old  buildings  which  are  so 
full  of  associations,  and  tidy,  thrifty-looking 
shops  are  clustered  around  the  famous  Pil- 
grim's Inn,  **Ye  Chequers  of  Ye  Hope,"  as  if 
to  accentuate  the  quaintness  of  this  "Dormitory 
of  the  Hundred  Beds." 

King's  School,  founded  in  the  seventh  cen- 
tury, still  brings  many  pupils  to  Canterbury, 
and  a  number  of  visitors  attend  the  school 
services  held  annually  in  one  of  the  chapels; 
and  in  cricket  week,  our  landlady  assured  us, 
with  commendable  civic  pride  and  a  keen  eye 
to  business,  the  town  is  exceedingly  gay.  But 
as  it  is  to-day,  in  its  quietness  and  peace,  it  best 
pleases  us.  We  were  happy  to  wander  at  will 
through  the  narrow  streets,  stopping  to  gaze 
at  the  old  houses  on  High  Street  with  their 
overhanging  eaves,  or  to  linger  near  the  modern 
**\  monument  at  the  Butter  Market  end  of  Mercery 

2  17 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Lane,  a  memorial  to  Christopher  Marlowe, 
whose  birthplace  on  George  Street  we  found 
later.  Noticing  a  curious  ornament  on  one  of 
the  angles  of  the  Chequers  Inn  we  were  told 
that  it  was  the  Black  Prince's  cognizance,  and 
then  we  met  other  reminders  of  that  knightliest 
and  gentlest  of  mediaeval  princes  who  rode 
through  these  Canterbury  streets,  after  the  bat- 
tle of  Poitiers,  with  his  royal  prisoner,  the 
French  King.  The  two  princes,  conqueror  and 
captive,  were  on  their  way,  like  the  good  Catho- 
lics that  they  were,  to  make  their  offerings  at 
the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas. 

There  will  be  much  to  see  to-morrow;  we 
have  only  touched  the  hem  of  the  garment  of 
wonder.  Now,  to  return  to  the  life  of  to-day, 
which  is  still  of  some  importance,  we  are  com- 
fortably lodged  in  the  Fleur-de-Lys,  which,  with 
its  quaint  courtyard  and  thirteenth  century 
windows,  seems  to  fit  the  old-time  associations 
in  which  we  live. 

The  moon  is  full,  and  this  old  town  by  moon- 
light is  a  dream.  We  wandered  off  after  din- 
ner to  see  the  beautiful  West  Gate,  which,  with 
its  two  round  embattled  towers  flanked  by  an- 
cient houses,  looks  like  a  bit  of  mediaeval  life  set 
down  in  twentieth  century  England,  then  back 
by  the  main   street   past  Margaret   Eoper's 

18 


WEDDING   BELLS 


house,  we  strolled  on  to  King's  Bridge,  from 
which  we  had  a  bit  of  old  Bruges,  by  whose 
canals  you  and  Allan  are  probably  wandering 
by  the  light  of  this  same  moon.  These  old 
gabled  houses,  on  a  river  that  is  no  wider  than 
a  canal  at  Bruges  or  Ghent,  are  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Canterbury  weavers,  who  ply 
their  trade  as  did  the  Huguenot  refugees  under 
Queen  Elizabeth  more  than  three  hundred  years 
ago.  They  tell  us  that  the  weaving  of  linen  and 
silk  quite  disappeared  from  Canterbury  for 
some  years,  and  has  only  lately  been  revived. 

We  have  found  some  compatriots  at  the 
Fleur-de-Lys,  a  Philadelphia  Quaker  lady,  Miss 
Cassandra  West,  and  her  pretty  niece.  Miss 
Lydia  Mott.  Miss  West  is  a  delightfully  orig- 
inal person  and  has  a  vast  store  of  information 
stowed  away  in  her  clever  head. 

At  first  Walter  and  Archie,  manlike,  looked 
upon  the  Quaker  lady's  friendly  advances  with 
disfavor  as  an  interruption  to  our  happiness, 
and  rather  resented  my  civility  to  her,  but 
Archie  succumbed  to  Miss  West's  charms  be- 
fore the  evening  was  over  and  I  predict  that 
my  good  man  will  soon  follow  in  his  footsteps, 
although  he  still  declares  himself  absolutely 
loyal  to  me.  The  niece  does  not  talk  much, 
which  is  just  as  well,  as  her  aunt  has  so  much 

19 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

to  say  that  is  worth  hearing,  and  then  Miss 
Mott  is  so  sweetly  pretty  that  it  is  quite  enough 
happiness  to  sit  and  look  at  her  charming  face. 
We  are  all  grateful  to  Miss  West  for  a  book 
that  she  loaned  us  which  we  have  sat  up  half 
the  night  reading.  In  addition  to  many  inter- 
esting things  in  it  about  Canterbury  pilgrim- 
ages in  general,  there  is  a  most  amusing 
account  of  two  Hampshire  farmers,  father  and 
son,  who  made  a  pilgrimage  here  from  near 
Winchester.  En  passant,  the  Winchester  route 
is  one  of  the  famous  pilgrimages,  which  is 
another  reason  why  we  should  have  gone  to 
Winchester  before  we  came  here.  I  am  tempted 
to  copy  one  little  extract  from  this  book  which 
gives  an  idea  of  the  extreme  simplicity,  or 
rather  the  wretched  discomfort,  of  the  living  at 
that  time.  Only  persons  of  great  distinction 
or  wealth  seem  to  have  had  rooms  to  themselves 
at  the  inns,  or  anything  approaching  a  bed,  and 
of  the  table  manners  to  be  found  among  the  peo- 
ple we  may  form  some  idea  from  Chaucer's 
Madame  Eglantine,  who  was  considered  a 
model  of  deportment  and  excessive  daintiness 
because : 

"  She  let  no  morsel  from  her  Hppes  fall, 
Nor  wet  her  fingers  in  her  sauce  deep." 

People  of  rank  seem  to  have  carried  their  bed- 

20 


WEDDING   BELLS 


ding  with  them  en  voyage,  and  our  good  Farmer 
William  and  his  son,  who  travelled  ''light"  as 
to  baggage  and  indulged  in  no  such  luxuries, 
had  sorry  experiences  while  upon  their  journey 
through  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Itchen  on 
their  way  to  Canterbury. 

''When  they  were  shown  to  their  beds,  Alfred 
wondered  why  the  straw  was  shaken  loose,  and 
eight  or  nine  inches  deep,  in  a  frame  of  boards, 
instead  of  being  in  a  cloth  case  as  they  had  it 
at  home.  His  father  explained  that  with  beds 
in  ticks  or  cases  it  was  very  difficult  to  keep 
them  free  from  vermin  when  used  by  all  sorts 
of  travellers,  whereas,  when  the  straw  was  loose 
the  vermin  dropped  through  to  the  floor,  and 
next  day  the  straw  could  be  well  shaken  out  and 
the  floor  swept.  When  he  examined  the  straw, 
however,  he  expressed  fear  that  they  would 
have  a  troubled  night,  unless  the  bed- 
ding had  been  very  well  shaken  and  swept 
beneath,  for  this  was  oaten  straw.  Many 
travellers  thought  that  oat  and  barley  straws 
bred  fleas,  but  he  believed  the  real  trou- 
ble was  that  they  had  rough  stalks,  up 
which  the  insects  could  crawl  to  the  sleeper, 
while  wheat  straw,  the  only  sort  that  should  be 
used  for  beds,  was  too  smooth  for  insects  to 
cling  to.    To  our  travellers*  sorrow  these  fears 

21 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

proved  only  too  well  founded,  and  being  used 
to  clean  sleeping  at  home,  they  passed  a  restless 
night. ' ' 

From  such  discomforts  by  the  way  and  dan- 
gers from  highwaymen,  who  beset  them  near 
Bentley  and  gave  poor  Alfred  a  sorry  wound 
upon  his  head,  the  town  of  Canterbury  as  they 
first  beheld  it  from  Hobbledown  Hill,  its  great 
Cathedral  shining  in  sunset  light,  the  spire  then 
surmounted  by  a  great  golden  angel,  must  have 
appeared  to  these  way-worn  pilgrims  a  ''city 
beautiful"  and  a  garden  of  delight.  Nothing 
could  have  presented  a  sharper  contrast  than 
the  homes  and  living  of  the  English  yeomen  of 
the  fifteenth  century  and  the  beauty  and  sump- 
tuousness  of  their  churches  and  cathedrals. 
Reading  the  simple  tale  of  William  and  Alfred, 
with  the  glorious  beauty  of  the  great  Cathedral 
quite  fresh  in  my  mind,  gave  me  some  concep- 
tion of  what  a  pilgrimage  meant  to  such  devout 
rustics  as  these  and  what  their  great  cathedrals 
stood  for.  The  dignity  and  grace  of  the  vast 
buildings,  the  harmony  of  line  and  color,  the 
sound  of  many  voices  swelling  up  through  the 
lofty  Gothic  arches  in  prayer  and  praise,  must 
have  been  an  inspiration  to  many  a  lowly  mind, 
making  more  real  and  substantial  the  promised 
joys  of  Heaven. 

22 


WEDDING   BELLS 


After  reading  together  and  talking  over  the 
quaint  tale  we  went  off  to  our  slumbers  rejoic- 
ing that  we  were  not,  like  the  farmer  and  his 
son,  dependent  upon  the  merits  of  either  rye 
or  wheat  straw  for  the  comfort  of  our  night's 
rest. 

July  13th. 

This  morning  we  devoted  to  the  Cathedral 
and  were  fortunate  in  having  an  intelligent  and 
interesting  cicerone.  He  pointed  out  to  us  some 
bits  of  color  still  remaining  in  the  vaulting,  just 
enough  to  suggest  the  rich,  elaborate  decoration, 
on  the  arches,  windows  and  monuments,  that 
made  the  interior  so  gorgeous  in  Chaucer's 
time. 

I  must  confess  that  my  interest  was  very 
much  divided  between  the  monuments  and 
memorials  of  my  favorite  the  Black  Prince  and 
the  Shrine  of  St.  Thomas,  which  should  by 
rights  claim  all  of  our  interest.  The  tomb  of 
Edward  Plantagenet  is  really  in  the  part  of  the 
Cathedral  dedicated  to  Thomas  a  Becket,  having 
been  placed  there  as  the  most  sacred  spot  in 
which  this  beloved  prince  could  be  laid.  There 
he  lies,  as  he  had  directed,  in  full  armor,  his 
head  resting  on  his  helmet,  upon  his  feet  spurs 
like  those  he  won  at  Cressy,  his  hands  joined  as 
if  repeating  his  well-known  prayer,  **God  de- 

23 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

fend  the  right."  On  his  armor  is  still  to  be 
seen  some  of  the  rich  gilding  with  which  the 
figure  was  once  covered  from  the  head  to  the 
feet,  making  it  appear  like  an  image  of  pure 
gold.  High  aboA''e  the  tomb,  on  a  beam  reaching 
from  capital  to  capital,  are  suspended  the 
brazen  gauntlets,  the  helmet  with  its  gilded 
leopard  crest,  the  velvet  cap  emblazoned  with 
the  arms  of  France  and  England,  and  the  empty 
sheath  from  which  Oliver  Cromwell  is  said  to 
have  taken  the  sword.  The  long  inscription  in 
Norman  French  was  composed  by  the  Prince 
himself,  and  calls  upon  all  who  pass  by  to 
contrast  his  former  wealth,  beauty  and  power 
with  the  wasted  form  that  lies  beneath. 

"  Tiel  come  tu  es,  je  autiel  f  u,  tu  seras  tiel  come  je  su, 
De  la  mort  ne  pensay  je  mie,  tant  come  j'avoy  la  vie." 

Later  we  saw  the  Prince's  Chantry,  in  the 
cryjDt,  which  he  founded  at  the  time  of  his  mar- 
riage with  his  cousin  Joan.  Here  in  the  groined 
vaultings  are  his  own  and  his  father's  arms, 
and  a  face  in  high  relief  said  to  be  the  Prince's 
beautiful  wife,  the  "Fair  Maid  of  Kent." 

The  verger  conducted  us  by  the  cloisters 
which  Thomas  a  Becket  had  entered,  through  a 
heavy  door  with  a  curious  octagonal  opening 
on  the  left,  which  he  told  us  was  a  hatch  through 

24 


WEDDING  BELLS 


which  the  cellarer  was  wont  to  pass  refresh- 
ments to  the  monks.  This  hatch,  constructed 
with  a  sudden  bend  in  the  passage,  "a  turn," 
he  called  it,  was  so  arranged  that  the  monk 
served  with  beer  could  not  be  seen  by  the  server. 
A  most  ingenious  device,  Walter  considers  it, 
to  prevent  a  too  close  count  of  beers. 

This  part  of  the  cloister  was  used  as  a  boys' 
school  and  on  the  stone  floors  are  still  to  be 
seen  the  marks  left  by  the  marbles  played  by 
the  scholars.  Over  these  same  stones  Becket 
passed,  with  his  monks,  slowly,  reluctantly,  not 
wishing  to  flee  from  his  enemies,  and  on  to 
the  chapter  house,  where  he  desired  to  re- 
main. His  followers,  however,  hurried,  almost 
dragged,  him  into  the  church,  through  the  door 
of  the  lower  north  transept,  which  the  Arch- 
bishop forbade  the  monks  to  bar  after  him,  say- 
ing that  the  church  of  God  should  not  be  turned 
into  a  fortress. 

*'The  vespers  had  already  begun,"  said  our 
guide,  '  *  and  the  monks  were  singing  the  service 
in  the  choir,  when  two  boys  rushed  up  the  nave, 
announcing,  more  by  their  terrified  gestures 
than  by  their  words,  that  the  soldiers  were 
bursting  into  the  palace  and  monastery.  In- 
stantly the  service  was  thrown  into  the  utmost 
confusion."    All  of  the  ecclesiastics  who  had 

25 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

surrounded  Becket  fled  except  Robert,  canon  of 
Merton ;  William  Fitzstephen,  his  chaplain,  and 
Edward  Grim,  tHe  Saxon  monk.  They  forced 
him  up  a  few  steps  toward  the  choir  as  a  place 
of  greater  sacredness  and  safety;  but  he  shook 
himself  loose  from  them,  bidding  them  to  go 
to  their  vespers,  and  as  they  hesitated  he 
stepped  back  to  meet  his  enemies  who  strode 
through  the  door,  crying,  **  Where  is  Thomas 
a  Becket,  traitor  to  his  King  and  country?'* 
To  which  Becket  replied,  **No  traitor,  but 
Archbishop." 

We  had  all  read  the  story  more  than  twice, 
but  standing  here  in  the  transept  near  the  great 
central  pillar  in  the  ancient  chapel  of  St.  Bene- 
dict, on  the  steps  where  the  heroic  monk  had 
perished  fighting  manfully  but  refusing  to  fly, 
the  seven  hundred  years  and  more  since  the  foul 
deed  was  done  faded  away  like  a  morning  mist, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  it  was  only  yesterday  that 
he  had  stood  here  defying  his  enemies  one  mo- 
ment, in  rude  and  violent  language,  the  next 
raising  his  eyes  to  heaven  with  the  words:  ''I 
am  ready  to  suffer  in  the  name  of  Him  who 
redeemed  me." 

Was  ever  such  a  scene  enacted  within  a 
church!  A  fitting  sequel  was  the  next  act  in 
the  drama,  the  penance  of  Henry  II,  four  years 

26 


WEDDING  BELLS 


later.  ''Here  in  this  Transept  of  the  Martyr- 
dom, the  King  knelt  and  kissed  the  stones," 
said  the  verger,  ' '  and  afterwards  with  his  head 
and  shoulders  within  the  martyr's  tomb,  clothed 
in  a  hair  shirt  and  linen  cover,  he  received  five 
strokes  of  the  rod  from  each  bishop  and  abbot 
and  three  from  each  of  the  eighty  monks,  and 
afterward  laid  all  night  on  the  stone  floor, 
fasting. '  * 

Seeing  that  we  were  in  a  mood  to  listen  to 
tales  of  wonder  our  clever  cicerone,  who  evi- 
dently possessed  a  fine  dramatic  instinct,  led 
us  to  the  part  of  the  crypt  in  which  St.  Thomas 
was  first  buried,  where  many  miracles  were  per- 
formed, and  then  back  into  the  choir  to  the  spot 
where  the  shrine  stood.  This  is  readily  found, 
as  the  feet  and  knees  of  many  pilgrims  have 
worn  away  the  stone  floor  which  once  sur- 
rounded it.  Here  thousands  of  the  faithful 
flocked  from  all  over  Christendom,  until  Henry 
VIII  called  upon  Thomas  a  Becket  to 
prove  his  right  to  sainthood.  Becket  hav- 
ing then  been  dead  over  three  hundred 
years  and  not  in  a  position  to  vindicate 
his  rights,  the  King  straightly  charged 
that  ''Thomas  Becket  should  no  longer  be  con- 
sidered a  saint, ' '  and  then  proceeded  to  destroy 
the  shrine  and  reduce  to  ashes    his    remains. 

27 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Hence  the  ruthless  destruction  of  so  much  that 
was  beautiful  in  this  Cathedral ;  but  in  the  three 
hundred  years  that  had  intervened  Becket's 
tomb  was  the  favorite  shrine  of  Christian  Eng- 
land. According  to  Dean  Stanley  no  less  than 
one  hundred  thousand  pilgrims  came  to  Can- 
terbury in  one  year,  to  kneel  before  the  shrine 
and  to  rub  their  wounds  and  aching  bones 
against  it,  or  the  stone  floor  or  any  part  of  the 
sacred  tomb  they  were  allowed  to  touch,  and 
here: 

"  The  holy  relics  each  man  with  his  mouth 
Kissed,  as  a  goodly  monk  the  names  told  and  taught." 

The  kissing  of  the  gruesome  relics  seemed  to 
us  what  our  Puritan  ancestors  would  have 
called  "a  fearful  joy,"  but  our  democratic  prin- 
ciples were  quite  outraged  when  we  learned 
that  even  this  poor  comfort  was  not  allowed  to 
all  alike.  When  the  relics  were  displayed,  only 
persons  of  rank  were  permitted  to  enter  the 
Sacristy  and  gaze  upon  certain  precious  pos- 
sessions, such  as  the  rude  pastoral  staff  of  pear- 
wood,  the  rough  cloak  and  bloody  handkerchief 
of  the  *' martyr."  *'Here,"  said  our  guide, 
''among  the  many  gorgeous  offerings  that 
blazed  upon  the  shrine  was  the  Eegale 
of    France,    a    jewel    the    size    of    a  hen's 

28 


WEDDING   BELLS 


egg.  The  King  of  France  had  come  here 
to  discharge  a  vow  made  in  battle,  and  knelt 
at  the  shrine  with  the  stone  set  in  a  ring 
on  his  finger.  The  Archbishop,  who  was  pres- 
ent, entreated  him  to  present  it  to  the  saint. 
So  costly  a  gift  was  too  much  for  the  royal 
pilgrim,  especially  as  it  ensured  him  good  luck 
in  all  his  enterprises.  Still  as  a  compensation 
he  offered  100,000  florins  for  the  better  adorn- 
ment of  the  shrine.  The  Primate  was  fully 
satisfied;  but  scarcely  had  the  refusal  been 
uttered  when  the  stone  leaped  from  the  ring, 
and  fastened  itself  to  the  shrine,  as  if  a  gold- 
smith had  fixed  it  there." 

Miss  West,  who  had  been  very  quiet,  as  we 
had  all  been  during  the  verger's  recital,  now 
turned  to  him  a  face  as  serious  as  his  own,  and 
said,  **Does  n't  thee  know,  my  friend,  that  it  is 
only  by  means  of  a  miracle  that  thee  can  get 
anything  out  of  some  people  ? ' '  We  all  laughed, 
even  the  solemn  verger's  countenance  relaxed, 
for  a  moment,  and  with  a  smile  still  lurking 
about  the  comers  of  his  mouth,  he  told  us  that 
in  a  certain  part  of  the  service  when  the  relics 
were  to  be  displayed,  the  silver  bells  of  the 
canopy  above  the  tomb  were  rung,  which  was 
the  signal  for  pilgrims  all  over  the  church  to 
fall  upon  their  knees,  and  this,  he  said,  was  the 

29 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

origin  of  the  name  given  to  the  little  blue  flower 
that  blooms  in  such  profusion  all  around  Can- 
terbury. 

It  is  a  pretty  enough  tale,  whether  true  or  not, 
and  following  close  upon  Miss  West's  sally 
broke  in  upon  the  solemnity  of  our  morning  un- 
der the  spell  of  St.  Thomas.  Archie  reminded 
us  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  leaving  many 
interesting  sights  for  another  day  we  made  our 
way  through  the  dark  entry,  and  out  into  the 
beauty  of  the  *^ Green  Court"  and  the  sunshine 
and  the  joy  of  living,  feeling,  as  Walter  said, 
that  a  full  course  of  St.  Thomas  taken  at 
one  sitting,  or  rather  standing,  was  "a 
bit  strenuous." 

This  afternoon  we  devoted  to  recreation  pure 
and  simple,  motoring  to  Barfrestone  Church, 
where  there  is  some  fine  Norman  work  and  I 
truly  believe  the  most  beautiful  church  door  in 
England.  Motoring  over  these  perfect  roads, 
many  of  them  old  Roman  roads,  between 
hedges,  orchards  and  all  manner  of  greenery  is 
a  joy  in  itself.  Our  chauffeur  tells  us  that  we 
should  not  miss  seeing  the  Garden  of  the  Fran- 
ciscans, and  in  this  most  enchanting  little  en- 
closure, with  its  parterres  of  gaily  blooming 
flowers,  we  spent  a  happy  hour.  The  small 
bridges  over  the  Stonr  covered  with  vines  are 

30 


WEDDING   BELLS 


so  picturesque,  especially  one  that  an  English 
girl  was  sketching,  from  which  there  is  a  view 
of  the  weavers'  houses,  that  I  longed  to  make 
you  a  water  color  of  it.  Across  the  narrow 
river,  a  creek  we  should  call  it  in  America, 
and  actually  spanning  it,  is  a  gray  stone  build- 
ing which  was  once  the  home  of  the  Fran- 
ciscans. Here  it  was  that  Richard  Lovelace, 
a  Kentish  man,  and  a  devoted  adherent  to 
Charles  Stuart  through  good  and  evil  report, 
wrote  the  well-known  lines: 

"  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 
That  for  a  hermitage." 

July  14th. 

We  are  spending  Sunday  here;  surely  we 
could  find  no  better  place  than  this,  among  all 
these  memorials  of  early  Christianity.  We  had 
an  hour  at  St.  Martin's  this  morning,  which 
does  not  look  its  age  if  it  is  really  the  oldest 
church  in  England. 

WTiere  the  modern  and  mediasval  plaster  has 
been  stripped  from  the  walls  of  St.  Martin's 
there  are  some  bits  of  pink  mortar  which 
Archie  declares  are  Roman,  and  this  with  a 
certain  kind  of  tile  placed  at  irregular  inter- 
vals, he  assures  us,  indicates  great  age.    The 

31 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

verger  told  us  that  the  church  had  been 
much  enlarged,  only  a  small  part  of  it  being 
the  old  Koman  church  built  before  St. 
Augustine  came  to  Canterbury.  As  there  was 
a  Roman  camp  here  during  the  reign  of  Con- 
stantine  the  Great,  it  is  not  impossible  that 
some  part  of  St.  Martinis  was  built  before 
Queen  Bertha's  time,  but  for  me  it  is  quite 
enough  to  know  that  she  worshipped  here. 
Whether  or  not  King  Ethelbert  was  baptized 
from  the  beautiful  baptismal  fount,  richly  deco- 
rated with  scroll-work  and  intertwining  circles, 
nobody  seems  to  know.  The  Norman  piscina  is 
old  and  interesting,  and  above  all,  as  the  sign 
and  seal  of  antiquity,  there  is  a  "lepers' 
squint"  through  which  lepers  and  penitents 
could  see  and  hear  the  services  while  standing 
under  the  shelter  of  the  old  porch.  The  verger 
pointed  out  a  narrow  little  window  on  the  north 
wall  through  which,  he  said,  "the  evil  spirits 
escaped  from  the  church  and  went  to  the  north 
country."  Why  to  the  north  and  not  to  the 
south  he  did  not  explain. 

We  spent  some  time  in  the  crypt  of  the  Cathe- 
dral this  afternoon  and  heard  the  French  ser- 
vice which  has  continued  without  interruption 
since  the  Huguenots  were  driven  out  of  their 
own  country  by  the  revocation  of  the  Edict 

S2 


WEDDING  BELLS 


of  Nantes.  So  sparse  a  congregation  assembled 
in  St.  Gabriel's  chapel  that  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  the  service  is  continued  because  the 
English  particularly  dislike  to  break  off  from 
any  time-honored  usage.  Archie  says  an  an- 
tiquarian, whom  we  met  at  the  library,  told 
him  that  the  tradition  of  the  French  weavers 
having  plied  their  trade  in  this  crypt  is  quite 
without  foundation,  and  Miss  West's  practical 
mind  had  already  suggested  the  impossibility 
of  working  in  this  "dim  religious  light."  The 
carvings  on  the  capitals  in  the  crypt  are  beau- 
tiful and  grotesque  beyond  my  powers  of  de- 
scription. One  may  readily  fancy  the  monks 
amusing  themselves  over  these  carvings,  or 
avenging  themselves  by  representing  their 
enemies  with  distorted  and  gruesome  faces,  a 
Dantesque  revenge,  or,  like  some  English 
"Lippo  Lippi,"  working  out  in  stone  wonders 
the  wild  joy  of  youth  and  love. 

Walter  and  Archie  had  their  heads  together 
over  their  Baedeker's  so  long  this  evening, 
without  inviting  me  to  take  part  in  their  conver- 
sation, that  I  fancied  that  they  were  preparing 
some  of  the  historical  conundrums  which  they 
delighted  to  spring  upon  me,  such  as,  *  *  Did  you 
know,  Zelphine,  that  our  word  canter  was  de- 
rived from  the  easy  ambling  pace  at  which  the 

3  33 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Canterbury  pilgrims  rode  their  palfreys  to  the 
shrine  of  St.  Thomas,  just  as  saunter  came  from 
sainte  terre,  one  who  wanders  through  the  Holy 
Land?"  or,  ''Did  you  know  that  most  of  the 
Tom  Towers  and  bells  in  England  were  named 
after  Becket?" 

No,  I  did  not  know  these  interesting  facts, 
nor  would  they,  as  I  took  pains  to  inform  them, 
had  they  not  been  poring  over  local  guides,  and 
had  not  Archie  been  talking,  by  the  hour,  with 
a  learned  antiquarian  in  the  library. 

A  proposition  quite  different  from  what  I 
expected  awaited  me,  however,  and  my  brother 
was  the  spokesman.  ''I  had  been  talking  a 
great  deal  about  Winchester  and  the  pilgrim- 
ages from  there.  How  would  I  like  to  go  to 
Winchester  in  an  autocar?  It  would  be  a 
pleasant  little  wedding  jaunt,  and  I  had  not  had 
much  of  a  wedding  trip,  anyhow."  How  would 
I  like  it?  How  could  I  help  liking  it,  when  he 
and  Walter  had  planned  a  trip  quite  after  my 
own  heart,  and  then — fell  blow  to  my  vanity ! — 
Archie  asked  in  his  most  persuasive  manner 
whether  I  thought  we  could  induce  Miss  West 
and  her  niece  to  join  us.  Oh,  Archie,  is  it  the 
wit  of  Miss  Cassandra  or  the  heaux  yeux  of 
Miss  Mott  that  tempt  you  to  prolong  your 
days  upon  English  soil?     Upon  this  subject, 

34 


WEDDING   BELLS 


when  questioned  in  private,  Walter, — loyal  soul 
that  he  is! — declined  to  give  an  opinion.  The 
very  first  time  he  has  hesitated  to  answer  a 
question  of  mine. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  two  ladies 
accepted  ''my  invitation,"  as  Archie  is  pleased 
to  call  it,  having  the  good  sense  to  realize  that 
they  would  add  quite  as  much  to  our  enjoyment 
as  the  trip  would  to  theirs.  Can  you  imagine 
a  more  delightful  suggestion?  I  left  half  of 
my  heart  in  Winchester  when  I  was  there  with 
you,  and  I  have  always  hoped  to  return  and  see 
some  of  the  things  that  we  missed,  and  now  to 
go  back  with  Walter  and  Archie,  who  have 
never  been  there,  will  be  a  rare  treat.  Miss 
Cassandra  is  as  much  excited  over  the  prospect 
as  any  girl  in  her  teens.  She  has  a  story  that 
she  wishes  to  look  up  in  Winchester,  the  Dulce 
Domum  tale,  which  you  remember.  She  and  I 
thought  it  belonged  to  the  King's  School  here; 
but  after  investigation  we  find  that  we  must 
change  its  habitat  to  Winchester. 

Walter  has  set  the  fashion  of  calling  our 
Quaker  lady  "Miss  Cassandra"  (among  our- 
selves, of  course),  as  the  contrast  between  her 
cheerful  outlook  upon  life  and  her  name  sug- 
gestive of  dismal  prophecy  appeals  irresistibly 
to  his  sense  of  humor. 

35 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

We  leave  here  to-morrow  morning  early. 
Walter  says  that  my  eyes  shine  like  the  King's 
Regale  at  the  prospect  of  the  jaunt.  It  is  not 
that  I  am  glad  to  leave  this  beautiful  Canter- 
bury, with  all  its  wonders ;  but  the  prospect  of 
a  day  in  the  open  with  congenial  companions  is 
something  that  stirs  one's  blood,  and  even  old 
Chaucer  says: 

"  What  shoulde  he  studie  and  make  hymselven  wood, 
Upon  a  book  in  cloystre  always  to  poure  ?  " 


II 

A  MOTOR  FLIGHT  INTO  THE  PAST 


God  Begot  House^ 

Winchester^  July  15th. 

We  were  up  with  the  lark  this  morning  and 
off  before  wind  and  sun  had  swept  the  dew  from 
the  grass.  Our  way  was  by  Hobbledown, 
Chaucer's 

"little  town, 
Which  that  ycleped  is  Bob  up  and  down, 
Under  the  Blee  in  Canterbury  way." 

Before  going  through  what  is  left  of  the 
forest  Blee,  or  Blean,  we  had  our  last  and  most 
glorious  view  of  the  great  Cathedral  from  Hob- 
bledown Hill,  its  great  tower  and  airy  pinnacles 
silhouetted  against  a  clear  blue  sky.  Yes,  Eng- 
lish skies  can  be  blue  at  times,  almost  as  blue  as 
those  of  Italy  and  America.  We  passed  by 
Lanfranc's  ancient  leper  hospital,  where  was 
preserved  the  slipper  of  St.  Thomas  which  so 
excited  the  anger  of  Dean  Colet,  when  he  came 
here  with  Erasmus,  that  he  exclaimed  angrily, 

37 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

"Do  these  asses  expect  us  to  kiss  the  shoes  of 
every  good  man  who  ever  lived  ? ' ' 

In  a  field  beyond  is  a  little  spring  with  a  stone 
arch  above  it,  and,  in  proof  of  its  claim  to  be 
called  the  Black  Prince's  Well,  his  three 
feathers  adorn  the  keystone  of  the  arch.  The 
waters  of  this  spring  are  said  to  possess  cura- 
tive properties,  and,  although  we  were  none  of 
us  ailing,  and  indeed  felt  particularly  well  and 
happy,  we  drank  some  of  the  water  in  memory 
of  the  Black  Prince,  hoping  with  Miss  Cassan- 
dra that  it  would  not  give  us  any  of  the  mala- 
dies it  claims  to  cure.  This  is  the  last  of  the 
waterings  of  St.  Thomas.  We  saw  the  fine  park 
of  Leeds  Castle  from  the  highway  and  so  went 
speeding  on  to  Maidstone,  situated  on  both 
banks  of  the  Medway,  the  ancient  capital  of 
Kent,  which  Samuel  Pepys  found  *'as  pretty 
as  most  towns  and  people  of  fashion  in  it." 
Whether  or  not  Maidstone  is  fashionable,  it  is 
now  a  prosperous-looking  place,  full  of  brew- 
eries and  nursery  gardens.  In  the  old  part  of 
the  town  we  saw  the  Bell  Inn  on  Week  Street, 
and  regretted  that  it  was  too  early  for  us  to 
lunch  there  and  try  the  cheer  that  Pepys  found 
so  good.  It  was  Walter  and  I  who  regretted; 
Miss  Cassandra  had  no  regrets  at  not  being 
able  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  Mr.  Pepys,  as 

38 


A   FLIGHT  INTO   THE   PAST 

he  happens  to  be  one  of  her  pet  aversions. 
** Does  n't  thee  know,"  she  said, in  something  as 
near  a  tone  of  reproach  as  her  amiability  would 
permit, — doesn't  thee  know,  dear,  that  Samuel 
Pepys  misrepresented  William  Penn  and  his 
family  and  even  called  his  mother,  Lady  Penn, 
a  'well  looked,  fat,  short,  old  Dutch-woman"?" 

*'She  was  Dutch,"  said  Walter,  ''and  there 
was  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  that ;  and  the 
Pepyses  and  Penns  seem  to  have  had  a  jolly 
enough  time  together,  racketing  about  at  even- 
ing parties  with  cards,  suppers,  and  dances,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Yes,  if  thee  can  believe  what  he  says.  Why, 
he  didn't  even  know  how  to  spell  Sir  William's 
name,  and  although  fair  to  his  face  and  pre- 
tending great  friendship,  Pepys  was  eaten  up 
with  jealousy  on  account  of  Sir  William's  favor 
at  Court,  calling  him  in  one  place  'the  falsest 
rascal  there  ever  was  in  the  world.'  I  can 
show  thee  the  passage." 

"Aunt  Cassie  is  on  her  favorite  subject," 
said  Lydia,  who  was  chatting  away  gaily  with 
Archie  on  the  front  seat.  ' '  Do  not  let  old  Pepys 
and  his  gossip  spoil  this  beautiful  day  for  thee. 
Aunt  Cassie." 

"No,  child,  thee  is  quite  right,"  said  Miss 
Cassandra,    smothering   her    indignation    and 

39 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

turning  to  Archie  to  ask  him  some  question 
about  the  country  through  which  we  were 
passing. 

Nothing  that  we  have  seen  in  England  sug- 
gests peace  and  plenty  as  does  this  Kentish 
land,  with  its  rich  meadows  embroidered  with 
scarlet  poppies  over  which  innumerable  sheep 
and  cattle  are  grazing,  its  great  fields  of  yellow 
grain,  its  orchards  of  apple,  plum  and  cherry, 
and  above  all  acres  and  acres  of  hop-vines  on 
all  sides.  These  vines,  with  their  exquisite 
heads  of  blossom  swinging  from  pole  to  pole, 
remind  us  of  the  immense  hop  farms  in  Otsego 
County,  near  Richfield  Springs.  Like,  and  yet 
with  a  difference,  as  there  is  something  quite 
entirely  English  about  this  countryside,  and 
the  comfortable  farm-houses  with  the  pictur- 
esque red-tiled  roofs  and  machicolated  gables, 
and  odd  conical- shaped  bams,  are  like  noth- 
ing we  have  seen  elsewhere. 

After  we  left  Maidstone,  our  chauffeur 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  change  his  route  from 
the  pilgrims*  way,  as  we  had  planned,  for 
another  which  he  said  was  shorter  and  over 
better  roads — but  still  Roman  roads,  he  assured 
us. 

Whether  he  knows  anything  about  it  or  not, 
Walter  says  that  many  of  the  roads  are  prob- 

40 


A   FLIGHT  INTO   THE  PAST 

ably  Eoman,  as  roads  once  made  are  not  usually 
given  up.  To  be  motoring  over  Constantine's 
roads  seems  sufficiently  incongruous,  but  to  be 
going  at  a  breakneck  speed  is  absolutely  inde- 
corous, and  Archie,  at  my  request,  in  his  own 
language  told  the  chauffeur  "to  slow  up,"  as 
we  were  not  running  a  race,  or  on  schedule 
time,  even  if  we  were  Americans ;  we  were  out 
for  pleasure,  and  it  made  little  difference  when 
we  reached  Winchester. 

We  certainly  have  an  air  of  enjoyment. 
Lydia  Mott  has  about  her  all  the  crispness  and 
freshness  of  the  morning.  She  seems  never  to 
get  a  speck  of  dust  upon  her  smart  blue  serge 
suit,  or  a  strand  of  her  hair  out  of  place,  even 
in  the  high  gale  of  an  automobile,  and  with 
no  end  of  little  locks  curling  themselves  around 
her  forehead  and  neck,  her  face  framed  in  by 
her  blue  veil,  she  is  quite  a  picture  of  youthful 
prettiness.  I  do  not  wonder  that  Archie  likes 
to  talk  to  her,  and  although  she  is  so  quiet 
usually,  she  seems  to  have  plenty  to  say  to  him 
to-day.  Walter  and  Miss  Cassandra  and  I,  on 
the  back  seat,  have  given  up  all  idea  of  conver- 
sation and  simply  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
and  the  freshness  of  the  air,  which  has  such  a 
soothing  effect  upon  the  lady  that  she  is  soon 
sound  asleep.    Walter  reminds  me  that  this  is 

41 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

the  first  time  we  have  motored  over  the  country- 
roads  since  our  famous  ride  from  Como  to 
Varese,  when  we  found  Allan  awaiting  us  at 
Villa  D'Este, — as  if  I  needed  to  be  reminded 
of  that  fateful  ride!  Absorbed  in  pleasant 
memories,  and  in  a  sense  of  hien  etre  that  only 
comes  to  us  when  we  are  happy  and  the  world 
is  at  its  best,  we  flew  along  through  a  bit  of 
Sussex  and  on  into  Hampshire,  until  Lydia 
broke  in  upon  our  reveries  by  pointing  out  the 
tower  of  Winchester  Cathedral.  It  is  rather 
disappointing  at  a  first  view,  as  you  may  re- 
member,— less  stately  than  Canterbury,  and 
lacking  the  exquisite  grace  with  which  Salis- 
bury's lofty  spire  rises  into  the  blue. 

I  need  not  tell  you  what  Winchester  looks 
like,  as  it  is  quite  unchanged  since  you  and  I 
were  here,  except  that  the  statue  of  King  Alfred 
has  been  unveiled.  It  is  a  fine,  noble  statue, 
upon  a  base  of  rough  hewn  stone,  but  after  the 
Angelos  and  Donatellos  that  we  have  seen  one  is 
not  easily  satisfied.  To  my  thinking  Donatello's 
St.  George  gives  a  better  idea  of  Alfred  the 
Great  than  this  statue;  something  of  the  force 
and  dignity  of  the  primitive  man,  which  we 
naturally  attribute  to  Alfred,  is  in  that  won- 
derful face  and  figure. 

They  tell  us  that  King  Alfred  was  buried 

42 


A   FLIGHT  INTO   THE   PAST 

over  on  Jewry  Street  in  Hyde  Abbey,  part  of 
which  is  now  a  barn.  It  seems  strange  that  his 
ashes  were  not  placed,  with  the  other  great 
ones,  in  the  CathedraL  You  remember  how  in- 
terested we  were  in  the  richly-decorated  mor- 
tuary chests  of  the  Saxon  kings,  in  their  niches 
high  up  on  the  side  screens  of  the  choir.  The 
remains  within  must  be  almost  infinitesimal, 
as  the  tombs  have  been  broken  open  during  sev- 
eral wars  and  the  dust  and  bones  considerably 
scattered  and  mixed.  But  this  is  their  shrine, 
and  here  the  names  and  memories  of  Edred  and 
Edmund  and  Ethelwulf  and  of  some  of  the 
Danish  kings  are  preserved,  and  we  feel  that 
the  remains  of  the  great  Alfred  should  be  in 
this  goodly  company. 

I  am  more  than  ever  impressed  by  the  beauty 
of  the  tombs,  monuments,  and  chantries,  some 
of  which  are  much  more  noble  and  dignified 
than  many  of  those  in  Westminster  Abbey,  as 
Bishop  Langdon's  chantry,  and  that  of  "William 
of  Wykeham,  placed  in  the  part  of  the  Cathe- 
dral where  he  loved  to  pray  when  a  boy,  as  the 
verger  told  us. 

''How  different  from  other  boys!"  exclaimed 
Walter,  which  levity  so  shocked  the  verger *s 
reverent  soul  that  we  all  hastened  to  make 
amends  by  our  warmly-expressed  admiration 

43 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

for  the  chantry,  and  for  the  noble  reclining 
figure  with  the  strange  inscription: 

"Here,   overthrown    by    death   lies   William,    sumamed 
Wykeham." 

You  surely  remember  it,  and  the  dear  little 
praying  monks,  with  their  innocent  old  faces 
and  clasped  hands,  sitting  at  the  feet  of  the 
proud  churchman  whom  only  death  could  over- 
throw. We  had  an  hour  in  the  Cathedral  this 
afternoon,  which  only  gave  us  time  for  a  gen- 
eral view  of  its  vastness,  the  nave  the  longest 
in  England,  and  for  a  glance  at  the  rich  decora- 
tions of  the  great  screen,  and  the  wonderful 
carvings  on  the  choir  stalls,  with  the  impish 
little  faces  looking  out  from  the  tracery  of 
leaves  and  flowers,  as  odd  and  unexpected  as  is 
the  Lincoln  imp  gazing  down  from  his  perch 
in  that  great  Cathedral.  The  exquisite  fan 
tracery  in  wood,  on  some  of  the  vaultings,  is 
said  to  have  been  designed  by  William  of 
Wykeham  himself. 

Walter  was  as  much  pleased  when  he  came 
across  the  tablet  of  Izaak  Walton  as  if  he  had 
met  a  friend.  We  have  been  laughing  at  him 
for  getting  so  much  pleasure  out  of  a  tomb ;  but 
I  must  confess  that  I  had  much  the  same  feeling 
when  I  saw  the  tablet  in  memory  of  dear  Jane 

u 


A   FLIGHT  INTO   THE  PAST 

Austen,  and  near  it  that  of  Mrs.  Montagu,  '  *  the 
Queen  of  the  Blue  Stockings"  and,  better  still, 
as  the  tablet  records,  ''the  Chimney  Sweepers' 
Friend." 

We  wandered  afterwards  through  the  en- 
trance to  the  Deanery,  with  its  three  pointed 
arches,  hoping  to  see  Izaak  Walton's  house, 
which  once  stood  in  the  garden.  We  were  told 
that  it  had  been  pulled  down,  but  to  make 
amends  for  our  disappointment  we  were  shown 
some  "absolutely  authentic  Druidical  stones," 
which  interested  the  men  of  the  party  very 
much,  as  did  a  bit  of  Eoman  pavement.  It 
appears  that  Philip  of  Spain  stopped  at  this 
famous  old  Deanery  the  night  before  his  mar- 
riage to  Queen  Mary.  We  had  just  seen  the 
chapel  in  the  Cathedral  where  her  portrait  is 
preserved,  and  the  chair  in  which  she  sat  during 
the  ceremony.  Even  in  her  gorgeous  costume, 
blazing  with  jewels  and  her  mantle  of  cloth  of 
gold,  Mary  could  never  have  been  anything  but 
plain  and  unlovely,  and  small  reason  as  we  have 
to  admire  Philip,  when  we  looked  at  her  hard, 
unsympathetic  face  we  could  almost  find  it  in 
our  hearts  to  excuse  him  for  his  cruel  indiffer- 
ence. Mary  Tudor  certainly  had  enough  sor- 
row in  her  young  life  to  turn  sweet  to  bitter! 
From  being  the  idol  of  the  court  and  her  par- 

45 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

ents,  their  "most  precious  possession,"  as 
Henry  was  wont  to  call  her  when  her  hand  was 
sought  by  foreign  princes,  to  be  set  aside 
in  turn  by  the  daughter  of  Anne  Boleyn,  and 
the  son  of  Jane  Seymour,  was  quite  enough 
indignity  to  have  written  hard  lines  upon  the 
face  of  Catherine  of  Aragon's  proud  daughter. 
Among  many  memorials  of  the  Winchester 
pilgrims  we  saw  the  gate  made  of  four  pieces  of 
fine  grill-work,  before  which  they  stood  and 
gazed  at  the  shrine  of  St.  Swithin.  This  re- 
minded us  that  we  had  not  yet  been  shown  the 
place  where  St.  Ursula  and  her  virgins,  and 
her  very  submissive  lover,  set  forth  upon  their 
pilgrimage  to  Eome.  No  person  here  seems  to 
know  anything  about  St.  Ursula,  except  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  the  King  of  Wessex,  of 
which  kingdom  Winchester  was  the  capital; 
but  Archie's  Canterbury  antiquarian  gave  him 
an  interesting  bit  of  information.  He  says  that 
the  legend  of  the  eleven  thousand  virgins  grew 
out  of  a  mistake  made  by  an  early  copyist  who 
freely  rendered  the  entry  ''Ursula  et  XI  M.  V.'* 
as  ''Ursula  and  11,000  virgins,"  reading  the 
M.  as  millia  instead  of  "martyred."  I  wonder 
if  a  great  many  incredible  tales  could  not  be 
thus  explained!  It  is  really  a  great  comfort 
to  me  to  have  the  frightful  slaughter  of  virgins 

46 


A  FLIGHT  INTO   THE   PAST 

diminislied ;  but,  as  Archie  says,  this  reading 
'Hakes  the  shine  off  the  Memling  paintings  of 
St.  Ursula  and  her  train,  and  throws  a  great 
many  bones  quite  out  of  business." 

Why  are  we  stopping  at  this  old  inn?  I  hear 
you  ask.  We  really  intended  to  go  to  one  of  the 
hotels,  but  our  chauffeur  brought  us  here,  for 
some  reason  best  known  to  himself,  and  at  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  overhanging  eaves  and  tim- 
ber-work of  this  most  picturesque  house,  Miss 
Cassandra  began  to  untie  her  bonnet-strings 
with  such  an  air  of  satisfaction  that  we  felt 
sure  that  nothing  would  make  her  quite  so 
happy  as  to  stop  at  this  old  ''God  Begot 
House,"  which  dates  back  to  1558.  Archie  re- 
marked, quite  pathetically,  after  dinner,  that 
"man  cannot  live  upon  antiquities  alone,"  but 
it  is  only  for  a  day  or  two  as  I  reminded  him. 
There  are  many  other  advantages  here  to  com- 
pensate for  the  lack  of  such  comforts  as  we 
might  find  at  some  up-to-date  inn.  To  be  on 
High  Street  near  the  beautiful  Market  Cross  is 
a  pleasure  in  itself,  and  then  to  look  out  of  the 
window,  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night,  and 
see  the  full-length  figure  of  good  Queen  Anne, 
with  the  orb  in  her  hand  and  a  crown  of  gold 
upon  her  head,  is  a  privilege  not  to  be  lightly 
esteemed.    It  is  interesting  to  be  in  Winchester 

47 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

on  St,  Swithin's  Day,  in  the  evening,  and  espe- 
cially encouraging  to  be  told  that  ''not  a  drop 
of  rain  has  fallen  to-day. ' '  We  may  be  reason- 
ably sure  of  good  weather,  for  according  to  the 
old  rhyme — 

"  St.  Swithin's  Day,  if  thou  dost  rain 
For  forty  days  it  will  remain : 
St.  Swithin's  Day,  if  thou  be  f  aire 
For  forty  days  'twill  rain  nae  maire." 

We  find  it  easy  to  believe  that  St.  Swithin 
was  kept  out  of  his  tomb  in  the  Cathedral  by 
forty  days  of  rain.  But  what  we  are  inclined 
to  doubt  is  that  it  will  rain  ''nae  maire"  for 
so  long  a  time,  St.  Swithin's  Day  being  clear. 

July  16th. 

Oh !  my  prophetic  soul !  In  the  home  of  the 
St.  Swithin  legend,  and  with  all  signs  in  our 
favor,  we  awoke  this  morning  to  hear  the  rain 
pouring  in  torrents — a  rain  of  the  permeating 
dampness  and  wetness  for  which  English  rains 
are  particularly  distinguished.  The  two  men 
of  the  party  were  anxious  to  go  to  Stonehenge, 
stopping  over  for  a  couple  of  hours  at  Salis- 
bury, and  although  we  women  had  all  been  to 
both  places,  and  though  we  were  longing  for 
another  day  in  Winchester,  we  had  amiably  sig- 
nified our  willingness  to  accompany  them.   This 

48 


A   FLIGHT  INTO   THE   PAST 

downpour  was  too  much  for  even  Walter's  an- 
tiquarian enthusiasm,  and  so  we  all  had  a  morn- 
ing together  in  the  "Seinte  Marie  College  of 
Wynchestre,"  as  it  is  called  in  the  old  charter, 
which  we  saw  in  the  muniment  room;  the  date 
is  1382,  but  there  was  a  Grammar  School  here 
under  the  care  of  monks  of  St.  Swithin's  Priory- 
long  before  the  Norman  Conquest  where  Ethel- 
wulf  and  Alfred  were  educated. 

Amid  all  the  wealth  of  antiquities  here  I  do 
not  wonder  that  you  and  I  missed  some  of  the 
interesting  things,  among  others  the  old  paint- 
ing of  the  *' trusty  servant"  in  the  college  hall. 
Such  an  odd  old  picture!  The  servant's  hands 
are  full  of  implements  of  husbandry  and  house- 
wifery. His  head  is  that  of  an  ass,  a  padlock 
on  his  mouth: 

"  The  padlock  shut — no  secrets  he  '11  disclose, 
Patient  the  ass — his  master's  wrath  to  bear, 
Swiftness  in  errand — the  stag's  feet  declare." 

Altogether  a  most  delicious  conceit,  dating  back 
to  the  fourteenth  century,  although  the  figure 
has  been  touched  up  and  put  into  Brunswick 
uniform  as  a  compliment  to  George  III,  who 
paid  a  visit  to  the  college  in  1778. 

By  dint  of  much  questioning  and  infinite  pa- 
tience, Miss  Cassandra  has  unearthed  the  Dulce 

4  49 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Domum  legend,  and,  as  Archie  says,  demon- 
strated her  prowess  in  running  a  quarry  to  its 
lair.  The  story  is  that  an  unhappy  scholar  of 
Wykeham,  kept  in  college  during  the  long  vaca- 
tion, wrote  some  Latin  verses  with  the  refrain, 

"  Domum,  domum,  domum,  dulce  domum." 

The  boy  died  just  as  the  holidays  were  ending, 
it  is  said  of  a  broken  heart,  and  the  verses  were 
found  under  his  pillow. 

Is  it  not  a  curious  coincidence  that  almost  the 
same  arrangement  of  words  was  used  by  the 
young  Wykehamist  so  many  years  before  John 
Howard  Payne  wrote  our  own  ''Home,  sweet 
home"?  The  date  of  the  writing  we  cannot 
find,  but  the  verses  were  probably  set  to  music 
by  John  Reading,  who  was  organist  to  the  col- 
lege between  1680  and  1692.  There  is  no  really 
good  translation  of  the  Latin  verses,  so  I  will 
not  inflict  any  of  them  upon  you. 

The  sad  little  story  of  the  boy's  death  is 
doubted  by  the  latest  historian  of  Winchester 
College;  but  the  fact  remains  that  the  Latin 
verses  are  still  sung  each  year  at  the  close  of 
the  summer  term,  around  a  great  tree  that  was 
pointed  out  to  us. 

Some  other  verses,  that  Walter  found, 
amused  us  very  much.    It  appears  that  when 

50 


A  FLIGHT  INTO   THE   PAST 

Grocyn,  the  noted  Greek  scholar,  was  still  a 
callow  youth  in  Winchester  College,  a  girl  threw 
a  snowball  at  him,  upon  which  he  wrote,  in  a 
strain  which  is  a  bit  suggestive  of  Waller : 

"  My  Julia  smote  me  with  a  ball  of  snow ; 
I  thought  that  snow  was  cold;  but  'tis  not  so. 
The  fire  you  wakened,  Julia,  in  my  frame 
Not  snow,  nor  ice  can  cool;  but  answering  flame." 

It  was  here  that  the  sententious  little  scholar, 
when  asked  by  her  Majesty,  Queen  Elizabeth, 
whether  he  had  ever  experienced  the  charms  of 
the  ''bibling  rod,"  replied  in  the  well-known 
line,  which  was  sufficiently  stately  to  suit  the 
occasion — 

"  Thou  bidst  me,  Queen,  renew  a  speechless  grief." 

Archie  has  discovered  a  most  hideous  regu- 
lation of  the  college;  the  boys  actually  paid 
* '  rod  money, ' '  and  thus  contributed  to  their  own 
'^speechless  grief,"  which  refinement  of  cruelty, 
something  akin  to  buying  the  rope  for  your  own 
hanging,  was  practiced  until  the  beginning  of 
the  last  century.  After  a  long  and  profitable 
morning  in  the  college,  which  contains  a  num- 
ber of  portraits,  carvings,  and  tapestries,  we 
returned  through  College  Street,  passing  by 
Jane  Austen's  house,  which  suggested  to  us  the 
idea  of  motoring  out  to  her  country  home.  This 

51 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

house  in  Winchester  is  the  one  in  which  she 
spent  the  last  months  of  her  life,  but  the  Steven- 
ton  parsonage,  in  which  her  girlhood  was 
passed,  is  over  near  Basingstoke,  about  four- 
teen miles  north  of  Winchester.  Miss  Cassan- 
dra was  overjoyed  at  the  thought  of  this  little 
pilgrimage,  and  begged  me  to  go  with  her  to 
the  Cathedral  to  take  one  more  look  at  the  brass 
tablet  in  memory  of  Jane  Austen,  placed  there 
by  her  nephew,  Austen  Leigh.  The  words  are 
so  simple  and  sweet : 

Jane  Austen,  known 
to  many  by  her  writ- 
ings, endeared  to  her 
family  by  the  varied 
charms  of  her  charac- 
ter, and  ennobled  by 
Christian       faith       and 

PIETY. 

There  is  a  much  longer  inscription  on  the 
ledger  stone  in  the  floor  nearly  opposite  the 
tomb  of  William  of  Wykeham ;  but  we  like  this 
one  best,  and  as  we  stood  there  reading  the 
words  Miss  Cassandra  recalled  to  me  Mrs.  Mai- 
den's story  of  the  stranger  who  visited  Win- 
chester Cathedral  thirty  years  ago,  to  whom  the 
verger  said,  quite  apologetically,  "Pray,  sir, 
can  you  tell  me  whether  there  is  anything  par- 
ticular about  that  lady,  so  many  people  want 

52 


A  FLIGHT  INTO   THE   PAST 

to  see  where  she  is  buried!"  Such  was  Jane 
Austen's  fame  so  near  the  place  of  her  birth  I 

*'My  dear,"  said  Miss  Cassandra,  with  a  glint 
of  something  like  tears  in  her  kindly  gray  eyes, 
**I  want  to  tell  thee  that  I  was  named  for  Jane 
Austen's  mother.  Thee  must  know  that  al- 
though my  father  was  a  Friend  he  always  en- 
joyed a  good  romance.  Walter  Scott  was  his 
delight;  but  above  all  others  he  placed  Jane 
Austen.  I  have  seen  him  laugh  over  some  of 
Mr.  Bennett's  witticisms  until  the  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks,  and  when  he  was  looking  about 
for  a  name  for  me  my  mother  suggested  Eliza- 
beth, as  the  name  of  his  favorite  heroine." 

**Why  not  Jane?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  thee  sees  I  had  a  sister  Jane;  but  just 
at  that  time  there  came  out  a  sketch,  in  one  of 
the  magazines,  about  Jane  Austen  and  her 
family,  in  which  her  mother,  Cassandra  Leigh, 
was  described  as  a  witty,  clever,  and  charming 
woman  from  whom  Jane  inherited  much  of  her 
ability,  and  forthwith  my  father  named  me  Cas- 
sandra. Jane  also  had  a  sister  Cassandra  to 
whom  she  was  devotedly  attached." 

And  so  you  see  our  cheery  Miss  Cassandra 
is  not  named  after  the  Trojan  lady  of  dismal 
prophecy.  After  this  revelation,  nothing  would 
have  induced  us  to  give  up  the  trip  to  Steven- 

5S 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

ton.  Fortunately  St.  Swithin  ceased  to  frown, 
and  the  sun  shone  forth  after  luncheon. 

There  is  nothing  especially  picturesque  or 
inspiring  about  the  little  village  of  Steventon 
or  the  parsonage,  which,  it  appears,  is  not  the 
same  house  in  which  the  novels  were  written, 
as  that  was  pulled  down  some  years  since.  We 
may  believe,  however,  that  the  old-fashioned 
garden  is  much  the  same,  and  the  *'turf  ter- 
race" exactly  answers  to  the  description  of  the 
terrace  in  ''Northanger  Abbey."  Miss  Cas- 
sandra also  called  our  attention  to  the  Hamp- 
shire hedges,  or  hedgerows,  to  which  Jane 
Austen  so  frequently  refers.  Quite  different 
from  the  ordinary  English  hedge,  the  Hamp- 
shire hedge  is — sometimes  a  path,  and  some- 
times a  cartroad  bordered  with  copse  wood  and 
timber.  The  hedges  at  Steventon  were  called 
the  ** Wood  walk"  and  the  ''Church  walk."  The 
latter  led  to  the  church,  and  to  a  fine-old  manor 
house  of  the  time  of  Henry  VIII,  to  whose 
grounds  the  little  Austens  had  free  access. 

Seeing  this  small  village,  situated  among  the 
chalk  hills  of  North  Hants,  and  the  hedges,  and 
the  rather  monotonous  and  uninteresting  coun- 
try in  which  Jane  Austen  lived  when  she  was 
painting  her  ''little  bits  of  ivory  two  inches 
wide,"  caused  us  to  wonder  more  than  ever  at 

54 


A  FLIGHT  INTO   THE  PAST 

the  touch  of  genius  that  gave  interest  and  vital- 
ity to  everyday  and  somewhat  commonplace 
characters  and  events. 

Although  the  Austens  afterwards  lived  at 
Chawton  Cottage,  on  the  Winchester  highway, 
it  was  her  early  home  at  Steventon  that  is  most 
often  reflected  in  Jane  Austen's  novels.  Miss 
Cassandra  says:  "It  is  very  much  with  Jane 
Austen  as  with  the  Brontes ;  she  was  true  to  the 
Hampshire  that  she  knew,  just  as  'Jane  Eyre' 
and  'Wuthering  Heights'  breathe  the  York- 
shire moors  in  every  line." 

If  we  have  never  been  to  Haworth,  Miss  Cas- 
sandra says,  "go  and  see  the  parsonage  with 
the  graveyard  beside  it,  and  walk  across  those 
desolate  moors,  and  then  you  will  understand 
something  of  the  life  and  genius  of  those  won- 
derful women." 

How  I  should  love  to  go !  but  is  there  any  end 
to  the  interesting  things  we  could  do  in  Eng- 
land? From  Winchester  we  could  make  a  dozen 
literary  pilgrimages,  Charlotte  Yonge's  home  is 
at  Otterbourne,  and  John  Keble's  at  Hursley, 
both  near  Winchester ;  Massinger,  Fielding,  and 
Joseph  Addison  all  lived  at  Salisbury;  and  only 
three  miles  away  is  Wilton,  of  carpet  fame, 
where  Philip  Sidney  wrote  his  "Arcadia"  and 
George  Herbert  his  hymns.    Charles  Kingsley's 

55 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Eversley  and  Miss  Milford's  Swallowfield  are 
within  easy  reach.  Shall  we  not  come  here  and 
spend  a  whole  month  some  time? 

Salisbury,  July  17th. 
This  morning  we  left  Winchester  betimes, 
stopping  by  the  way  to  pay  our  respects  to  the 
St.  Cross  Hospital,  which  is  on  the  Itchen  only 
a  mile  from  the  town.  This  very  interesting  old 
hospital,  founded  by  Bishop  Henry  de  Blois,  in 
1136,  is  for  the  support  of  ''thirteen  poor, 
feeble  old  men,"  and  after  the  lapse  of  nearly 
eight  hundred  years  it  still  carries  on  the  work 
for  which  it  was  established.  We  met  some  of 
the  aged  brothers  coming  out  of  the  chapel, 
in  black  gowns  with  silver  crosses  on  the  left 
breast.  A  very  intelligent  brother  took  us 
through  the  chapel  and  explained  to  us  the  curi- 
ous griffs  on  the  bases  of  the  columns,  carvings 
of  various  animals,  and  the  beautiful  Nor- 
man work  over  the  doors  and  windows,  and  the 
''lepers*  squint."  The  quadrangle  through 
which  we  passed  to  the  refectory  is  most  pict- 
uresque and  is  surrounded  by  the  dormitories, 
with  their  many  slender  chimneys  and  lovely 
arched  doorways.  In  the  refectory,  which  is 
open  to  the  sky,  our  guide  showed  us  the  great 
leather  jacks,  or  pitchers,  which  were  used  to 

56 


A  FLIGHT  INTO   THE   PAST 

bring  up  ale  from  the  cellar,  as  each  poor  feeble 
brother  was  allowed  three  quarts  per  day. 

An  interesting  rule  of  St.  Cross  is  that  no 
person  asking  for  a  piece  of  bread  and  a  horn 
of  ale  shall  be  turned  away  from  the  gate.  We 
did  not  demand  this  far-famed  dole  at  the  por- 
ter's lodge,  but  we  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
some  poor  men  enjoy  it,  three  of  them  at  one 
time.  The  woman  at  the  gate  said  it  was  given 
out  as  long  as  the  daily  portion  lasted.  There 
is  a  regular  fee  charged  for  admission  to  St. 
Cross,  but  so  small  a  one — a  shilling  and  six 
pence  for  a  party — that  we  naturally  wished  to 
give  the  good  brother  who  conducted  us  a  small 
douceur.  Archie  and  Walter,  I  knew,  were 
having  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  over  this  ques- 
tion of  to  tip  or  not  to  tip  the  refined  and  edu- 
cated man  who  had  given  us  so  much  pleasure. 
Miss  Cassandra,  like  the  proverbial  *'Lady 
from  Philadelphia,"  came  to  their  rescue  by 
telling  them  that  the  good  brothers  were  quite 
used  to  accepting  tips,  and  by  putting  all  of 
our  offerings  together  we  could  make  up  a  sum 
which  they  need  not  hesitate  to  offer  our  guide. 
As  usual.  Miss  Cassandra  was  right,  and  the 
old  gentleman  was  more  than  willing. 

We  accomplished  our  motor  trip  to  Stone- 
henge  this  morning,  which  I  need  not  tell  you 

67 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

looked  quite  the  same  as  when  we  saw  it.  The 
only  thing  that  seems  to  be  changed  is  the  opin- 
ion of  the  antiquarians  about  the  origin  of  the 
mysterious  monuments.  It  was  all  quite  easy 
and  simple  when  we  studied  history  and  Mrs. 
Markham  told  us  that  these  were  Druidical  al- 
tars, but  now  the  PhcEuicians,  the  Saxons,  the 
Danes,  and  even  the  Buddhists  are  allowed  an 
opportunity  to  claim  the  honor  of  setting  up 
Stonehenge.  Archie's  antiquarian  told  him  that 
there  are  a  number  of  these  stone  circles  in 
the  Orkneys,  on  the  Island  of  Lewis,  and  in 
other  parts  of  the  kingdom.  So  much  excavat- 
ing is  being  done  through  England  that  their 
history  will  some  time  be  revealed. 

We  stopped  at  Old  Sarum,  on  our  way,  an 
enormous  camp  once  the  site  of  a  Roman 
encampment.  It  is  not  possible  to  go  any  dis- 
tance here  without  being  reminded  of  the 
Eoman  occupation.  At  Amesbury,  where  we 
stopped  for  luncheon,  Vespasian  had  a  camp, 
and  what  interested  me  more,  Gay  wrote 
his  ''Beggar's  Opera"  at  Amesbury  Abbey,  a 
quite  proper  place  for  playwriting,  as  Ames- 
bury, like  the  town  of  the  Prince  of  Dramatists, 
is  situated  upon  the  Avon.  And  as  if  to  hope- 
lessly confuse  one's  geography,  there  is  a  vil- 
lage of  Stratford  quite  near. 

58 


A   FLIGHT  INTO   THE   PAST 

We  reached  Salisbury  in  time  to  walk  around 
the  Cathedral  and  the  close.  The  best  view  we 
had  of  it  was  from  Sarum  hill,  and  as  it  rises 
from  the  surrounding  level  with  a  certain  dig- 
nity, lightness  and  grace,  Salisbury  Cathedral 
may  well  be  called  The  Lady  of  the  Plain. 

The  interests  of  the  day  have  been  rather 
too  varied  to  suit  my  taste;  but  this  was  our 
one  day  for  Stonehenge,  as  we  all  go 
our  separate  ways  to-morrow.  Archie  in- 
sists upon  taking  us  to  Reading,  which 
is  a  good  starting-place  for  Miss  Cas- 
sandra and  Miss  Lydia,  who  are  to  visit  friends 
in  Cambridge;  and  for  ourselves,  as  we  are 
going  northward.  I  really  do  not  know  just 
where  we  are  going,  as  Walter  is  so  mysterious 
about  our  next  stopping-place;  I  rather  think 
I  am  to  have  another  ** wedding  journey,**  and 
if  it  proves  as  delightful  as  this  one  of  Archie's 
and  Walter's  planning,  I  shall  feel  that  to  keep 
quiet  and  drift  is  a  desirable  role  for  me. 
Whatever  my  good  man's  plans  are,  Miss  Cas- 
sandra is  evidently  au  courant  of  them,  as  they 
have  mysterious  confabs  and  much  nodding  and 
smiling  on  the  part  of  the  Quaker  lady.  I 
choose  to  see  nothing,  as  I  dearly  love  to  be 
surprised.  Something  else  that  is  not  exactly 
a  surprise,  as  it  was  my  own  suggestion,  is  that 

59 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Christine  and  Lisa  are  coming  over  next  month, 
and  this  is  also  for  my  pleasure,  although  I 
must  admit  that  their  father's  eyes  dance  when- 
ever their  names  are  mentioned. 

If  Mrs.  Coxe  could  only  know  how  pleased  I 
am  at  the  prospect  of  having  the  little  girls 
with  me,  she  would  stop  pitying  me  for  having 
married  a  widower  with  children.  Of  course  the 
dear  lady  was  quite  too  polite  to  express  her 
sympathy  in  words;  but  a  chacun  a  son  gout 
look  came  over  her  face  whenever  the  children's 
names  were  mentioned.  Poor  dears,  I  do  trust 
that  they  may  like  me ! 


Ill 

ZELPHINE'S  WEDDING  JOURNEY 


Kjbighlet,  July  19th. 

You  will  wonder,  dear  Margaret,  when  you 
read  this  letter-heading,  where  we  are  and  why 
we  are  here.  I  wondered  myself,  because,  as 
I  told  you,  Walter  would  give  me  no  satisfac- 
tion, having  planned  this  little  detour  as  a  sur- 
prise to  me.  Only  when  looking  over  some 
post-cards  at  a  stationer's  yesterday  afternoon 
and  finding  a  lot  of  Haworth  pictures — the 
Bronte  house,  the  Black  Bull,  and  the  Church — 
did  it  suddenly  dawn  upon  me  that  Keithley,  as 
these  remarkable  Britons  call  it,  is  the  Keighley 
which  Mrs.  Gaskell  speaks  of  as  an  old-fash- 
ioned village  on  the  road  to  Haworth.  Walter's 
delight  over  my  surprise  and  his  success  in 
''doing  me,"  to  be  quite  English,  would  have 
amused  you  and  Allan. 

This  manufacturing  town,  grimy  with  the 
smoke  of  many  worsted  mills,  is  a  prosaic 
enough  entrance  to  the  home  of  the  writers  of 
the  most  romantic  and  imaginative  fiction  of 

61 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

their  day.  Dull  and  gray  as  it  looks,  after  the 
rich  verdure  and  bloom  of  Kent  and  Hamp- 
shire, I  shall  always  hold  Keighley  in  grateful 
remembrance  as  the  gate  to  a  day  of  perfect 
happiness  in  Haworth.  This  is  my  real  wed- 
ding journey,  because  it  was  all  planned  as  a 
surprise  for  me,  and  is  a  pilgrimage  so  entirely 
after  my  own  heart. 

The  Commercial  Hotel,  which  we  were  told 
was  the  least  objectionable  in  the  town,  is  fur- 
nished with  a  grill-room  where  we  dined  upon 
chops  of  England's  best,  potatoes  browned  to 
a  turn,  and  the  inevitable  plum  tart.  After  din- 
ner, being  interested  in  refreshing  our  mem- 
ories by  looking  over  a  copy  of  Mrs.  GaskeU's 
**Life  of  Charlotte  Bronte,'*  which  we  picked 
up  in  a  bookshop,  we  read  until  a  late  hour. 
The  room  assigned  to  us  was  of  magnificent 
proportions  and  brilliantly  lighted  with  elec- 
tricity. The  landlady  in  showing  it  to  me  said 
that  it  was  the  manager's  room,  which  I  fancy 
she  gave  to  us  as  a  tribute  to  my  gray  hair  and 
generally  sedate  appearance. 

When  I  turned  off  the  light  about  midnight 
I  noticed  that  a  number  of  wires  crossed  the 
room  near  the  ceiling,  but  being  very  sleepy 
I  paid  no  attention  to  them  and  was  soon  in 
the  midst  of  an  animated  conversation  between 

62 


ZELPHINE'S   WEDDING   JOURNEY 

Rochester  and  Charlotte  Bronte.  The  demure 
little  lady  was  telling  her  hero,  who  had  long 
black  hair  and  wore  a  Lord  Byron  collar,  that 
he  really  must  leave  her  then  and  there,  when 
suddenly  upon  the  stillness  of  the  night  there 
sounded,  not  the  wild  shriek  of  the  insane  wife 
of  Rochester  which  would  have  been  entirely 
appropriate  to  the  occasion  and  the  hour,  but 
a  loud,  persistent  knocking  at  the  door,  and  a 
voice  calling  out  something  about  an  old  gen- 
tleman who  had  no  light  and  could  not  find  his 
way  to  his  bed.  As  this  circumstance  did  not 
seem  especially  to  concern  us,  we  paid  no  at- 
tention to  it  until  the  voice  again  called  out 
that  we  had  turned  off  *'the  central  switch," 
and  the  whole  house  was  as  black  as  ink. 

The  old  gentleman's  dilemma  was  of  so  Pick- 
wickian a  flavor,  and  the  whole  affair  was  so 
amusing,  especially  Walter's  wrath  over  what 
was  quite  our  own  fault,  that  we  forgot  our 
annoyance  in  the  humor  of  the  situation  and 
began  the  day — for  it  must  then  have  been 
after  one  o'clock — ^with  a  hearty  laugh. 

The  next  day,  the  one  day  we  had  dedicated 
to  Haworth,  it  was  raining.  We  are  inclined  to 
think  that  it  always  rains  in  Yorkshire,  the 
skies  are  so  leaden.  By  eleven  o'clock,  the  hour 
for  one  of  the  infrequent  trains  leaving  for 

63 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

Haworth,  the  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  clouds 
were  still  heavy  and  lowering.  When,  however, 
we  saw  the  sombre  little  town  quite  two  miles 
before  we  reached  the  station,  upon  its  hilltop 
with  dun  and  purple  hills  rising  above  it,  just 
as  Mrs.  Gaskell  described  it,  we  concluded  that 
clouds  and  gray  skies  best  became  Haworth. 
Its  associations  are  certainly  not  of  the  gayest, 
when  we  remember  the  semi-tragic  life  of  the 
three  remarkable  women  who  lived  here,  and 
their  daily  and  hourly  struggle  with  poverty 
and  ill-health,  while  across  their  path  was  ever 
the  shadow  of  the  ill-doing  of  the  brilliant,  be- 
loved, but  weak  and  ill-governed  Branwell 
Bronte. 

We  were  travelling  third-class  to-day,  for  lo- 
cal color,  and  you  will,  I  think,  admit  that  we 
found  it.  A  portly  and  red-faced  man,  still  in 
that  debatable  land  which  we  are  pleased  to  call 
middle  life,  was  talking  quite  earnestly  to  a 
companion  in  a  language  that  we  supposed  to 
be  Yorkshire,  which  we  managed  to  understand, 
even  though  I  am  not  clever  enough  to  put  it 
on  paper.  We  gathered  from  the  stranger's 
remarks,  interlarded  as  they  were  with  some 
quite  unfamiliar  expletives,  that  he  had  not 
been  pleased  with  his  accommodations  at  the 
Commercial  Hotel  at  Keighley.    Then  in  quite 

64 


ZELPHINE'S   WEDDING   JOURNEY 

plain  English  he  exclaimed,  ''When  I  came  to 
the  inn  at  one  o'clock,  it  was  all  dark,  and  so, 
stumbling  and  batting  about,  I  opened  what  I 
thought  to  be  my  door.  A  scream  followed, 
'Eobbers!  Fire!'  Fortunately  I  recognized 
the  voice  of  the  manageress,  and,  quieting  her 
alarm  by  telling  her  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and 
that  the  house  was  as  black  as  a  coal-mine,  she 
set  about  finding  out  what  was  the  matter." 

We  were  deeply  interested  by  this  time,  and 
considerably  disconcerted.  The  speaker's  Eng- 
lish was  evidently  a  concession  to  our  ig- 
norance, as  he  was  pleased  to  include  us  in  the 
conversation. 

''And  what  was  it — fuse  burned  out!"  asked 
the  comrade. 

"No,  some  fule  of  a  woman  had  turned  off  the 
central  switch.  An  American — I  fancy  they 
don't  know  much  about  electricity  in  that 
country. ' ' 

"Where,  oh,  where  did  Franklin  fly  his  kite?" 
murmured  Walter. 

"The  manageress  had  gone  to  bed,  I  fancy, 
but  where  was  the  night  watchman?"  queried 
the  listener. 

"Sound  asleep  in  the  office.  But  did  you 
ever  hear  of  such  a  fule  trick?" 

Smothering  our  laughter,  we  acknowledged 

5  C5 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

that  we  never  had,  and,  to  divert  attention  from 
my  burning  cheeks  and  confusion  of  counte- 
nance, Walter  began  to  look  over  his  time  tables 
and  to  ask  questions  about  trains  to  York. 
Among  other  papers  and  notes  there  fell  upon 
the  floor  an  introduction  to  the  proprietor  of  the 
Black  Bull  in  Haworth,  which  had  been  pressed 
upon  us  by  our  landlord  at  Canterbury.  Our 
friend  of  the  midnight  adventure  picked  up  the 
note,  and,  as  he  returned  it,  said  quite  civilly, 
**I  see  my  name  on  the  envelope.  What  can  I 
do  for  you?" 

Walter  explained,  and  he  and  the  host  of  the 
Black  Bull  were  soon  talking  together,  the  lat- 
ter informing  his  ignorance  as  to  localities  and 
distances,  while  I,  the  guilty  one,  the  disturber 
of  the  night's  peace,  thought  of  the  Bronte  sis- 
ters, who  so  often  walked  these  four  miles  be- 
tween Keighley  and  Haworth,  as  there  was  no 
railroad  in  their  time,  and  a  hack  from  the 
Devonshire  Arms  was  too  great  a  luxury  to  be 
indulged  in  often. 

As  there  were  no  hacks  at  the  station  to-day, 
we  climbed  up  the  hillside  road,  which  is  so 
steep  that  the  stones  are  zigzagged  to  keep  men 
and  horses  from  slipping. 

Although  a  thriving  little  manufacturing 
town  has  grown  up  at  the  foot  of  the  long  hill, 

66 


ZELPHINE'S   WEDDING   JOURNEY 

we  can  well  imagine  the  loneliness  of  Haworth 
in  the  winter,  even  now,  and  in  Charlotte 
Bronte's  time  the  mail  coach  over  Blackston 
Edge  was  sometimes  snowed  up  for  a  week  or 
ten  days. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  is  the  principal  street 
of  the  village,  paved  with  great  blocks  of  stone, 
like  the  hill  towns  of  Italy  and  almost  as  primi- 
tive in  its  appearance.  On  this  street  stands 
the  Black  Bull,  Branwell  Bronte's  favorite 
resort. 

Our  guide  insisted  upon  our  stopping  first  to 
see  his  inn,  which  is  the  quaintest  and  most 
individual  that  we  have  found  anywhere,  with 
its  black  oak  and  shining  pewter,  very  much,  I 
fancy,  as  it  looked  in  the  days  of  the  Brontes. 
The  daughter  of  mine  host  of  the  Black  Bull,  a 
pretty,  rosy-cheeked  lassie,  at  her  father's  sug- 
gestion, constituted  herself  our  cicerone.  A 
more  intelligent  guide  we  might  have  found, 
but  none  more  willing  or  cheerful.  Whether 
showing  us  the  tablet  to  Charlotte  Bronte  in 
Haworth  Church,  or  pointing  to  us  the  windows 
of  her  room  at  the  rectory,  the  little  maid's 
countenance  was  wreathed  in  smiles,  probably 
in  view  of  prospective  shillings.  Her  one  idea 
seemed  to  be  to  take  us  to  the  Bronte  Museum, 
but  we  preferred  to  linger  near  the  rectory, 

87 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

which  is  somewhat  enlarged  since  the  Brontes 
lived  here  and  now  has,  in  front  of  it,  a  tidy 
little  garden  and  lawn.  Some  flowers  and  shrubs 
have  been  induced  to  grow  here  where  once  a 
few  straggling  currant  bushes  struggled  for  ex- 
istence on  the  bare  strip  of  ground  between  the 
house  and  the  churchyard  wall.  On  the  other 
three  sides  the  house  is  set  about  with  grave- 
stones. Across  the  way  is  the  school-house,  the 
church  quite  near  toward  the  village,  and  be- 
yond the  street  opens  out  upon  the  lonely  moors 
that  Emily  Bronte  so  loved  that  she  pined  and 
grew  pale  and  ill  when  away  from  them.  It  was 
the  sense  of  liberty  that  the  moors  gave  her  that 
Emily  delighted  in,  and  here  were  the  elemental 
forces  that  she  longed  to  meet  in  nature  and  in 
men  and  women. 

There  must  have  been  something  of  the  primi- 
tive woman  in  these  sisters,  especially  in  Emily, 
whose  free  and  untamed  soul,  as  Matthew 
Arnold  wrote, 

"Eaiew  no  fellow  for  might, 
Passion,  vehemence,  grief, 
Daring,  since  Byron   died." 

Coming  of  a  mingled  strain  of  Cornish  and 
Irish  ancestry,  both  poetic  and  imaginative 
strains,  the  inherited  tendencies  of  the  Brontes 

68 


ZELPHINE'S   WEDDING   JOURNEY 

were  developed  by  the  loneliness  of  a  home 
where  there  were  few  visitors  and  no  childish 
friendships.  The  sensitive  and  imaginative 
girls  wrote  their  weird  and  romantic  dramas 
and  acted  them  for  the  pleasure  of  their  own 
circle,  which  included  their  father  and  their 
brother  Branwell. 

Do  you  remember  how  Emily  and  Anne 
amused  themselves,  for  years,  with  ''the  Gon- 
dals"?  Emily  wrote  in  one  of  her  letters: 
"The  Gondals  still  flourish,  bright  as  ever.  I  am 
at  present  writing  a  work  on  the  First  War.'* 
These  creatures  of  their  imagination,  whom 
they  carried  through  the  most  thrilling  experi- 
ences, seem  to  have  afforded  the  sisters  unfail- 
ing entertainment.  Emily  frequently  refers  to 
the  struggles  between  the  royalists  and  the  re- 
publicans in  ' '  Gondaland, "  and  once  she  says, 
"We  intend  sticking  firmly  by  the  rascals  as 
long  as  they  delight  us,  which  I  am  glad  to  say 
they  do  at  present."  "Pleasures  of  the  Imag- 
ination" the  sisters  certainly  possessed;  and 
how  much  imagination  was  needed  to  make  life 
interesting  upon  their  bleak  hilltop,  which 
Charlotte  herself  admitted  was  "not  romantic," 
even  if  "flowers  brighter  than  the  rose  bloomed 
for  Emily  in  the  blackest  of  the  heath" ! 

Although  we  had  been  told  that  the  present 

69 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

rector  of  Haworth  admitted  no  visitors,  having 
doubtless  been  bored  to  extinction  by  curious 
tourists,  I  plucked  up  courage  to  sound  the 
knocker,  hoping,  quite  unreasonably,  that  some 
exception  might  be  made  in  our  favor,  only  to 
be  met  with  an  uncompromising  rebuff  admin- 
istered in  the  expressionless  tone  of  an  official 
guide:  *'No  visitors  admitted  without  a  letter 
of  introduction. ' '  And  so,  having  no  letter,  we 
were  denied  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  interior 
of  the  Bronte  home,  and  above  all  the  dining- 
room,  that  is  so  intimately  associated  with  the 
life  and  work  of  Charlotte  and  Emily.  Here  it 
was,  says  Mrs.  Gaskell,  after  their  simple  sup- 
per and  their  allotted  task  of  needlework,  in 
which  the  sisters  all  excelled,  that  they  would 
walk  around  and  around  the  table,  their  arms 
intertwined,  discussing  plans  for  school-keep- 
ing, teaching,  and  in  later  years  the  plots  for 
their  novels.  The  demure  little  elder  sister 
combined  with  her  soul  of  fire  and  her  rich 
imaginative  faculty  a  saving  sense  of  humor, 
and  so  much  sweetness  and  domestic  charm  that 
she  more  than  once  made  havoc  with  the  hearts 
of  her  father's  curates.  The  appearance  and 
disappearance  of  her  several  suitors  served  to 
vary  the  monotony  of  Charlotte's  life,  but 
Emily  and  Anne  were  too  painfully  shy  and  re- 

70 


ZELPHINE'S   WEDDING   JOURNEY 

served  to  indulge  to  any  extent  in  recreations 
of  the  same  sort,  although.  Emily  in  childhood 
is  said  to  have  been  the  prettiest  of  the  three, 
and  we  have  Charlotte 's  authority  for  the  state- 
ment that  the  curates  sometimes  "cast  sheep's 
eyes  at  Anne." 

Dear,  gentle  Anne  Bronte,  as  her  brother-in- 
law  called  her,  seems  to  us  a  vague  and  shadowy- 
personality.  She  was  perhaps  imderstood  by 
no  one  except  her  bosom  companion  and  confi- 
dante, Emily.  Her  life  was  passed  at  Haworth, 
to  which  place  she  was  brought  as  a  baby,  only 
leaving  home  to  fulfil  the  uncongenial  task  of  a 
governess  at  neighboring  country  houses. 

It  seems  that  only  once  did  Anne  go  from 
home  on  a  pleasure  trip,  unless  her  hurried 
journey  to  London,  with  Charlotte  in  1848,  may 
be  so  considered.  The  record  of  this  brief  out- 
ing is  in  Emily's  diary  of  1845 : 

Anne  and  I  went  on  our  first  long  journey  by  ourselves 
together,  leaving  home  the  thirtieth  of  June,  Monday,  sleep- 
ing at  York,  returning  to  Keighley  Tuesday  evening,  sleep- 
ing there  and  walking  home  on  Wednesday  morning. 

This  same  ''long  journey"  to  York  we  had 
planned  to  make  from  Keighley  this  afternoon, 
had  not  Bronte  associations  absorbed  us  body 
and  soul  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 
Instead  of  the  two  or  three  hours  that  we  were 

71 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

assured  would  be  quite  long  enough  for  Ha- 
worth,  we  have  given  up  the  entire  day  to  it, 
only  returning  to  Keighley  in  time  for  a  late 
dinner. 

As  we  strolled  across  the  moors  back  of  the 
parsonage  we  recalled  the  description  given  by 
Mrs  Bronte's  nurse  of  the  six  little  creatures, 
the  eldest  but  seven,  who  used  to  walk  out  hand 
in  hand  over  these  moorland  paths.  '*I  used  to 
think  them  spiritless,"  said  the  nurse,  ''they 
were  so  different  to  any  children  I  had  ever 
seen.  In  part  I  set  it  down  to  a  fancy  Mr. 
Bronte  had  of  not  letting  them  have  flesh  meat 
to  eat.  It  was  from  no  wish  for  saving,"  she 
explained,  ''for  there  was  plenty  and  even 
waste  in  the  house,  but  he  thought  children 
should  be  brought  up  simply  and  hardily. ' ' 

' '  There  is  nothing  pale  or  delicate  about  that 
pair,"  said  "Walter,  with  the  most  delightful 
inconsequence,  but  I  knew  that  our  talk  about 
the  motherless  little  Brontes  had  turned  his 
thoughts  toward  his  own  bairns,  and  so  I  was 
prepared  to  fill  in  any  gaps  that  might  occur. 

"And  if  we  should  undertake  to  cut  off  their 
flesh-meat  there  certainly  would  be  a  rebellion 
in  the  family." 

**And  they  would  be  quite  right,"  I  said. 
**I  'm  glad  for  my  part  that  Christine  and  Lisa 

72 


ZELPHINE'S   WEDDING   JOURNEY 

]mow  what  they  want  and  are  not  afraid  to  ask 
for  it.  The  Bronte  children  were  far  too  meek 
and  submissive  for  their  own  good." 

**You  evidently  share  my  friend  Abbott's 
views  about  the  training  of  parents,  Zelphine," 
exclaimed  Walter ;  * '  if  old  Mr.  Bronte  had  been 
trained  out  of  his  queer  notions  and  had  not 
sent  Charlotte  and  Emily  back  to  that  wretched 
school  where  they  were  starved,  they  might 
have  lived  to  be  old  and  Emily  might  have  writ- 
ten another  'Wuthering  Heights.'  "  This  last 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  if  one  ''Wuthering 
Heights"  was  not  quite  enough  for  the  world! 

Yet  Mr.  Swinburne  considers  this  book  as  one 
of  the  legacies  of  genius,  and  I  must  say  that 
I  quite  agree  with  his  estimate  of  the  wonder- 
ful power  of  Emily  Bronte's  description  of  the 
moors,  when  he  says,  "All  the  heart  of  the 
league-long  billows  of  rolling  and  breathing  and 
brightening  heather  is  blown  with  the  breath 
of  it  in  our  faces  as  we  read ;  all  the  fragrance 
and  freedom  and  glow  and  glory  of  the  high 
north  moorland." 

To  make  the  picture  complete,  I  longed  to 
see  a  lapwing,  with  its  brilliant  iridescent 
plumage,  recalling  Emily's  exquisite  descrip- 
tion of  the  flight  of  the  one  which  Catherine 
Linton  followed. 

73 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

The  Haworth  moors  are  less  lonely,  now  that 
so  many  stone  quarries  have  been  opened  here, 
than  in  the  days  when  the  sisters  walked  toward 
the  purple  black  hills  and  the  little  waterfall 
that  they  loved.  But  even  so,  there  is  some- 
thing inexpressibly  weird  and  desolate  about 
these  long  sweeps  of  gently  rolling  common 
edged  by  a  line  of  sinuous  hills  which  stretch 
off  into  more  distant  reaches  of  upland,  giving 
one  a  sense  of  boundless  space.  To-day  a  leaden 
sky  hung  low,  as  if  to  shut  in  this  barren  treeless 
expanse  from  the  outside  world.  Surely  here 
were  all  the  elements  for  tragedy,  and  as  we 
thought  of  the  parsonage  with  its  surrounding 
gravestones,  looking  out  upon  this  lonely  up- 
land, we  did  not  wonder  that  the  sensitive,  im- 
pressionable Charlotte  should  have  written 
**Jane  Eyre"  and  "Shirley,"  or  that  Emily's 
wild,  untrammelled  imagination  should  have 
burned  itself  out  in  the  almost  inconceivable 
pages  of  *'Wuthering  Heights"! 

After  an  indifferent  luncheon  at  the  Black 
Bull,  we  spent  a  delightful  hour  in  the  Bronte 
Museum,  which  is  Haworth 's  memorial  to  its 
gifted  daughter.  Here  are  a  number  of  letters 
and  personal  effects  of  Charlotte's,  and  a  silk 
gown  with  a  bayadere  stripe  of  plum  color 
and  brown,  which  rather  dismal  garment  is 

74 


ZELPHINE'S   WEDDING   JOURNEY 

marked  ''Charlotte  Bronte's  wedding  dress." 
But  we  had  it  on  Mrs.  Gaskell's  authority  that 
the  bride  wore  a  white  embroidered  muslin  and 
a  white  bonnet  trimmed  with  green  leaves,  in 
which  she  looked  "like  a  snowdrop,"  and  so  we 
were  only  willing  to  accept  the  plum-colored 
silk  as  a  going  away  gown,  although  ready  to 
believe,  as  the  card  further  stated,  that  "Those 
who  saw  the  wedding  said  she  tripped  along 
like  a  little  fairy." 

The  fairy  boots  in  which  the  bride  tripped 
along,  we  saw  later  in  the  house  of  a  daughter 
of  one  of  Mr.  Bronte's  parishioners.  Such  tiny 
boots  they  were,  what  used  to  be  called  gaiters, 
laced  up  the  sides  and  made  of  a  piece  of  the 
plum-colored  silk.  The  fairy  gaiters  and  a  pair 
of  stays,  long  and  cruelly  stiff  as  to  bones,  and 
about  large  enough  in  the  waist  for  a  robust 
doll,  gave  us  a  realizing  sense  of  the  fragile 
figure  and  small  stature  of  the  modest  little 
authoress  who  went  up  to  the  great  city  of  Lon- 
don to  visit  her  publishers, — so  simple  and 
country-like  with  all  her  genius ! 

For  some  reason,  the  plum-colored  gown  and 
the  tiny  boots  brought  tears  to  my  eyes,  even 
more  than  the  tablet  in  Haworth  Church,  per- 
haps because  they  made  more  real  the  brief 
period  of  love  and  wedded  happiness  that  cast 

75 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

a  sunset  radiance  over  the  shadowed  life  of 
Charlotte  Bronte.  In  thinking  of  her  now  I  find 
myself  rejoicing  over  the  few  simple  pleasures 
that  came  to  the  self-sacrificing  daughter  and 
devoted  sister;  her  visit  to  her  husband's  fam- 
ily in  Ireland,  her  liking  for  these  new  relations, 
and,  above  all,  the  joy  that  came  to  her  from 
being  cherished  and  cared  for,  she  whose  chief 
thought  had  always  been  for  others. 

Even  on  the  night  before  her  wedding  poor 
Charlotte  had  a  serious  disappointment.  When 
all  was  finished,  her  trunk  packed  and  the  wed- 
ding dress  ready  to  put  on,  Mr.  Bronte  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  stopping  at  home  while 
the  others  went  to  the  church.  As  there  was 
no  one  else  to  give  away  the  bride  Miss  Wooller, 
her  old  teacher,  offered  her  services  and  so  the 
wedding  was  not  delayed.  Can  you  imagine 
a  father  being  so  disagreeable  when  he  had 
finally,  and  after  many  months  of  uncertainty, 
given  his  consent  to  the  marriage? 

Our  last  visit  was  to  Haworth  Church,  which 
is  quite  changed  and  is  now  a  large  modem 
building,  with  nothing  left  of  the  old  church 
except  the  tower.  The  tablet  to  the  Bronte 
sisters  is  on  the  wall  at  the  west  end  of  the 
church,  and  quite  near  the  chancel  Charlotte  was 
buried.     Upon   the   tablet   is   the    simple  in- 

76 


ZELPHINE'S   WEDDING   JOURNEY 

scription,  '' Charlotte,  wife  of  the  Rev.  Arthur 
Bell  Nicholls,  A.B."  The  verger  told  us  that 
the  brass  tablet  in  memory  of  Charlotte  and 
Emily  was  given  by  a  London  gentleman  when 
the  church  was  rebuilt.  A  wreath  of  flowers, 
now  faded  and  brown,  had  been  placed  over 
Charlotte's  grave  to  which  a  card  is  attached 
upon  which  is  written,  ''With  the  homage  of 
B.  C.  and  Y.  A.  Wilberforce  [Basil  and  Vir- 
ginia Wilberforce],  September  19th,  1899." 
This  is  the  Canon  Wilberforce  whose  preach- 
ing interested  us  so  much  at  St.  John's, 
Westminster. 

On  our  way  back  to  Keighley  we  met  the 
rector  of  a  neighboring  parish  and  had  a 
pleasant  talk  with  him.  He  regretted  our  dis- 
appointment in  not  being  able  to  get  into  the 
parsonage  and  gave  us  his  card  which,  he  said, 
"would  admit  us  upon  our  next  visit  to 
Haworth."  Our  next  visit!  Does  one  ever 
come  again  to  these  little  out-of-the-way  spots, 
dear  as  they  are  with  all  their  interesting  asso- 
ciations? This  reverend  gentleman,  Mr.  Law- 
rence by  name,  was  quite  willing  to  talk  about 
the  Brontes,  as  are  all  the  people  hereabouts, 
they  having  brought  renown  and  many  visitors 
to  this  obscure  little  Yorkshire  village.  He 
said,  that  he  had  always  thought  Emily  the 

77 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

most  remarkable  and  entirely  individual  of  the 
sisters.  ''Shrinking  from  strangers,  except 
when  forced  to  go  among  them  to  earn  her 
share  of  the  family  expenses,  she  always  re- 
turned to  the  wild  solitude  of  the  moors  with 
delight.  It  was  quite  evident,"  he  said,  ''from 
some  of  the  scenes  and  characters  described  in 
'Wuthering  Heights,'  that  Emily's  imagination 
had  been  impressed  by  tales  and  traditions  that 
had  reached  her  ears  of  the  rude  and  primitive 
life  of  Yorkshire  during  the  early  years  of  the 
century,  when  cock-fighting  was  a  favorite 
pastime  in  the  West  Eiding  and  the  cruel  sport 
of  bull-baiting  was  still  practiced."  Mr.  Law- 
rence said  that  Mrs.  Gaskell's  story  of  the  York- 
shire squire  who  was  so  addicted  to  cock-fight- 
ing that  while  he  was  ill  with  a  mortal  disease 
he  had  mirrors  so  arranged  that  he  could  see 
the  game  from  his  bed  was  not  exaggerated. 
Another  tale  that  he  told  us  of  a  certain  squire 
who  was  in  the  habit  of  securing  privacy  in  his 
house  by  firing  indiscriminately  at  any  one  who 
threatened  to  disturb  his  peace,  reminded  us 
of  Mrs.  Gaskell's  description  of  the  remarkable 
manner  in  which  Mr.  Bronte  was  wont  to  work 
off  his  superfluous  emotions.  The  firing  of  a 
succession  of  pistol  shots  by  her  husband  seems 
to  have  been  so  common  an  occurrence  that  deli- 

78 


ZELPHINE'S   WEDDING   JOURNEY 

cate  Mrs.  Bronte,  lying  on  her  bed  upstairs, 
hearing  the  quick  explosions  below  and  knowing 
that  something  was  wrong,  would  say  to  her 
nurse,  with  the  sweet  submissiveness  in  which 
English  women  seem  to  excel,  ' '  Ought  I  not  to 
be  thankful  that  he  never  gave  me  an  angry 
word!" 

When  we  think  of  the  examples  of  ungov- 
erned  human  nature  that  Emily  Bronte  en- 
countered in  her  own  family,  her  eccentric 
father  and  her  passionate,  unhappy  brother, 
and  hearing  Mr.  Lawrence's  tale  of  the  rude- 
ness of  the  Yorkshire  life  sixty  years  ago,  her 
Heathcliff  and  Earnshaws  do  not  seem  as  im- 
possible as  when  we  read  about  them  by  our 
peaceful  firesides  at  home.  We  shall  never  re- 
gret this  day  with  the  Brontes,  and  are  glad 
that  we  have  seen  their  moors,  which,  lonely  as 
they  seem  to  us,  possessed  for  the  sisters  a 
divine  beauty. 


IV 

IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


Warwick,  July  21st. 

Since  writing  to  you,  dear  Margaret,  we 
have  changed  all  of  our  plans,  which  you  and 
I  once  decided  was  the  most  congenial  occupa- 
tion for  a  traveller,  and  we  are  indulging  in 
what  the  English  call  ''bad  geography.'*  In- 
stead of  going  directly  from  Keighley  to  York, 
we  suddenly  decided  to  turn  our  faces  south- 
ward, while  the  weather  is  so  cool,  returning 
to  the  North  country  in  August. 

Here  we  are  established  in  a  fairly  comfort- 
able place  near  the  castle  of  the  old  King- 
maker, after  spending  a  night  in  a  quite 
impossible  inn  that  was  recommended  to  us  as 
perfectly  delightful.  At  the  first  place  that  we 
essayed,  also  highly  recommended  and  a  tem- 
perance hotel  at  that,  the  manager  was  so  under 
the  influence  of  one  or  more  of  his  tabooed  bev- 
erages that  it  was  all  that  he  could  do  to  keep 
his  balance  while  he  talked  to  us.  As  this  is 
our  second  experience  of  the   sort,  we  have 

80 


IN   WARWICKSHIRE 


added  an  emphatic  note  to  our  list  of  don'ts: 
Don't  ever  try  a  temperance  hotel  under  any 
consideration  whatever. 

*'He  is  as  happy  as  a  lord,"  exclaimed  Wal- 
ter, as  we  turned  away.  I  wonder  why  it  is  that 
the  best  of  men,  even  such  as  Walter,  will 
persist  in  speaking  lightly  and  jocosely  of  what 
is  so  absolutely  degrading  and  beastly.  When 
I  ventured  a  remonstrance,  rather  tentatively, 
knowing  well  the  aversion  of  the  male  mind  to 
anything  of  the  nature  of  a  temperance  crusade, 
Walter  looked  quite  serious  for  a  moment,  and 
then  laughingly  replied  that  this  form  of  ex- 
pression was  probably  a  survival  in  our  speech 
of  the  time  when  a  man's  feats  in  drinking  were 
lauded  with  his  prowess  in  arms. 

Later  Walter  illustrated  his  theory  by  point- 
ing out  the  huge  caldron  in  Warwick  Castle 
called  Guy's  Porridge  Pot,  saying,  **You  see, 
Zelphine,  whatever  the  drink  happened  to  be, 
those  doughty  old  fellows  drank  it  off  in  deep 
draughts. ' ' 

The  caldron  holds  about  a  hundred  and 
twenty  gallons  and  was  probably  a  garrison 
cooking  pot,  made  for  Sir  John  Talbot,  the  one 
to  whom  the  familiar  old  couplet  refers : 

"  There's  nothing  left  of  Talbot's  name 
But  Talbot's  pot  and  Talbot's  lane." 
6  81 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

As  we  were  wandering  about  the  streets  this 
morning,  feeling  homeless  and  houseless  in  this 
strange  town,  having  sent  our  luggage  to  the 
railway  station  and  not  yet  having  secured  an 
abiding  place,  we  suddenly  found  ourselves  at 
the  entrance  of  the  Church  of  St.  Mary.  After 
admiring  the  handsome  r credos  of  black  and 
white  marble,  and  examining  the  remarkable 
tomb  of  the  first  Thomas  Beauchamp  and  his 
Countess,  whose  eflSgies  are  surrounded  by  over 
thirty  niches  containing  figures  supposed  to 
represent  relatives  of  the  noble  Earl,  we  turned 
our  steps  towards  the  magnificent  Beauchamp 
Chapel,  which  you  and  I  enjoyed  so  much  one 
rainy  morning  five  years  ago.  Walter  had 
never  seen  this  chapel  and  was  delighted  with 
it,  of  course,  and  especially  enthusiastic  over 
the  tomb  of  Richard  Beauchamp,  Earl  of  War- 
wick, the  founder,  who  died  in  1499.  Here,  as 
almost  everywhere,  the  old  workmanship  is  so 
much  finer  than  the  modern.  You  may  remem- 
ber this  really  noble  monument  of  gray  marble 
with  its  effigy  of  the  Earl  in  gilt  brass,  sur- 
rounded by  fourteen  noble  and  titled  weepers 
in  their  respective  niches,  the  male  weepers  in 
mantles  or  mourning  habits  and  the  women  in 
low-cut  bodices  with  mitred  head-dresses  and 
short   mourning   tippets   hanging   over    their 

82 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


backs.  The  Earl  is  represented  in  full  armor, 
his  head  resting  upon  a  tilting  helmet,  near  it 
a  brass  swan,  the  white  swan  of  Avon,  and  at 
his  feet  the  muzzled  bear  and  griffin  of  his  an- 
cient line. 

The  tomb  of  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leices- 
ter, and  his  second  wife,  is  quite  near,  very 
ornate,  as  you  may  remember,  but  much  less 
beautiful  than  that  of  Richard  Beauchamp,  with 
a  massive  superstructure  and  under  it  a  semi- 
circular recess,  which  contains  a  long  Latin 
inscription,  and  orders  without  end,  French  and 
English.  Here  lies  the  once  powerful  favorite 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  with  all  his  honors,  titles 
and  armorial  bearings  emblazoned  upon  his 
tomb,  and  along  the  sides  of  this  remarkable 
structure  are  arched  canopies  containing  small 
figures  representing  the  virtues,  and  above  all 
and  quite  as  appropriate,  the  motto,  *' Droit  et 
loyal. '» 

I  remember  how  indignant  you  were  at  the 
thought  of  the  noble  Lady  Lettice  lying  here  in 
this  gorgeous  tomb  beside  her  Lord,  while  the 
disowned  and  rejected  Amy  Robsart,  quite  as 
truly  Lady  Dudley,  lies  unhonored  beneath  the 
chancel  of  St.  Mary's  Church  in  Oxford.  It  is 
some  satisfaction  to  know  that  the  rich  and 
tasteless  monument  was  erected  by  **the  ex- 

83 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

cellent  and  pious  Lady  Lettice"  herself,  who 
survived  her  husband  by  many  years,  and  also 
that  one  has  to  come  to  Warwick  to  be  reminded 
that  such  a  person  existed,  while,  thanks  to 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  beauty  and  the  sorrows  of 
Amy  Robsart  are  known  wherever  the  English 
language  is  spoken. 

We  were  reading  the  Latin  inscription  on  the 
recess  back  of  the  tomb  and  trying  to  identify 
the  several  virtues  that  adorned  the  canopy, 
when  a  familiar  voice  behind  us  exclaimed: 
"All  of  the  virtues,  indeed  I  If  the  Earl  of 
Leicester  possessed  the  virtues,  I  should  like 
to  know  where  the  vices  are  to  be  found ! ' '  We 
turned,  to  find  Miss  Cassandra  West  and  Lydia 
Mott  standing  behind  us.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  opportune,  although  we  were  not, 
as  Walter  explained,  like  the  newly  married 
couple  in  one  of  Marion  Crawford's  novels, 
ready  to  welcome  any  outside  distraction 
whether  from  friend  or  foe.  Aside  from  our 
genuine  liking  for  Miss  West  and  her  pretty 
niece,  she  proved  herself  again  the  Peterkin's 
''Lady  from  Philadelphia"  and  at  once  set 
about  solving  our  riddles.  Not  only  did  Miss 
Cassandra  provide  us  with  accommodations  in 
the  hotel  in  which  she  was  stopping,  but  she 
made  up  our  minds  for  us  as  well,  a  really  val- 

94 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


uable  service  to  a  traveller  and  a  great  saving 
of  time.  We  had  not  been  able  to  decide 
whether  we  should  devote  this  brilliantly  beau- 
tiful day  to  Kenilworth  or  to  Stratford.  So 
few  perfectly  clear  days  had  fallen  to  our  lot 
of  late  that  Walter  declares  that  when  we  have 
one  it  goes  to  our  heads  like  champagne  and 
confuses  us,  and  here  was  dear  Miss  Cassandra 
coming  to  our  rescue  with  a  carriage  and  well- 
arranged  plan  for  a  morning  at  Kenilworth. 

We  were  soon  bowling  along,  over  fine  roads 
and  through  a  fertile,  well-wooded  country  by 
Guy's  Cliif,  the  castle  of  the  gigantic  slayer  of 
the  legendary  dun  cow.  The  best  view  of  this 
picturesque  castle  is  to  be  had  from  the  ruins 
of  an  old  mill  near  the  road,  which  is  itself 
interesting  as  dating  back  to  Saxon  England. 
Later  and  more  peaceful  associations  of  Guy's 
Cliff  House  are  connected  with  the  tragic  actress 
Mrs.  Siddons,  who  lived  here  in  her  youth,  and 
with  the  young  artist  Greatheed.  The  property 
is  now  the  seat  of  Lord  Percy,  and  the  house  is 
shown  to  visitors  in  the  absence  of  the  family. 
Our  driver  informed  us,  with  an  air  of  author- 
ity, that  the  house  was  not  to  be  seen  as  the 
family  was  now  in  residence,  and  that  his 
brother  was  head  gardener  at  the  Cliff  House. 

"Evidently  a  very  important  position,"  said 

85 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

Walter,  ''about  next  to  the  Lord  Chancellor's." 
The  man,  for  whom  this  remark  was  not  in- 
tended, heard  it  and  assented  with  a  smiling 
comitenance,  not  possessing  a  particularly  keen 
sense  of  humor,  or  thinking  perhaps  that  the 
comparison  referred  to  Lord  Percy  himself. 

Kenilworth,  like  fair  Melrose,  to  be  seen 
aright  should  be  visited  by  the  pale  moonlight ; 
but  even  in  the  garish  light  of  day  the  castle 
lends  itself  to  the  history  and  romance  that 
are  inseparably  associated  with  its  ruinous 
chambers  and  massive  ivy-grown  walls. 

Having  entered  through  Leicester's  gate- 
house and  passed  on  by  the  Norman  keep,  we 
crossed  the  ancient  kitchen  in  which  feasts  were 
prepared  for  Queen  Elizabeth  and  her  retinue, 
and  on  to  the  great  banqueting  hall  in  which 
they  were  served.  This  noble  hall  with  its  two 
beautiful,  almost  perfect  oriel  windows,  was 
built  by  John  of  Gaunt,  * '  the  time-honored  Lan- 
caster." Quite  near  is  the  Strong  Tower  or 
Mervyn's  Tower,  whose  small  octagonal  room 
on  the  second  floor  is  still  to  be  reached  by  a 
narrow  winding  stone  stairway.  It  was  in  this 
room  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  placed  Lady  Amy 
Dudley  when  she  made  her  ill-starred  journey 
to  Kenilworth  under  the  protection  of  Wayland. 
The  room,  with  its  stone  floors  and  thick  walls, 

86 


IN   WARWICKSHIRE 


looks  like  a  prison,  altliough  from  the  window 
there  is  a  charming  view  of  an  orchard  and  gar- 
den which  now  occupy  the  site  of  what  was  once 
the  Pleasance.  It  was  in  this  Pleasance,  then 
''decorated  with  statues,  arches,  trophies,  foun- 
tains, and  other  architectural  monuments, ' '  that 
Tressilian  wandered,  paying  little  heed  to  the 
beauties  of  nature  and  art  which  surrounded 
him,  his  mind  being  absorbed  by  thoughts  of  his 
lost  love,  Amy,  whom  he  knew  to  be  in  danger, 
but  in  how  great  danger,  or  how  near  to  him  at 
that  moment,  he  was  quite  ignorant. 

As  I  stood  in  the  little  tower  chamber  looking 
out  upon  the  Pleasance  with  its  orchard  and 
garden,  and  upon  the  reaches  of  green  meadow 
beyond,  my  mind,  like  Tressilian 's,  quite  filled 
with  thoughts  of  Amy  Robsart,  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  come  from  the  floor  below,  an  infi- 
nitely pathetic  voice,  broke  forth  in  these  words : 

Now  nought  was  heard  beneath  the  skies, 
The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  still, 

Save  an  unhappy  lady's  sighs, 
That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile. 

"  Leicester,"  she  cried,  "  is  this  thy  love 
That  thou  so  oft  hast  sworn  to  me, 
To  leave  me  in  this  lonely  grove, 
Immured  in  shameful  privity?" 


87 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Thus  sore  and  sad  that  lady  grieved, 
In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear; 

And  many  a  heartfelt  sigh  she  heaved. 
And  let  fall  many  a  bitter  tear. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day  appeared, 
In  Cumnor  HaJl,  so  lone  and  drear, 

Full  many  a  piercing  scream  was  heard, 
And  many  a  cry  of  mortal  fear. 

The  death-bell  thrice  was  heard  to  ring. 
An  aerial  voice  was  heard  to  call. 

And  thrice  the  raven  flapp'd  its  wing 
Around  the  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 


Full  many  a  traveller  oft  hath  sigh'd, 
And  pensive  wept  the  Countess'  fall, 

As  wandering  onwards  they've  espied 
The  haunted  towers  of  Cimmor  Hall. 

The  lines  so  perfectly  fitted  the  scene,  and 
I  was  so  completely  under  the  spell  of  Kenil- 
worth  and  the  Northern  Wizard  who  described 
it,  that  I  never  stopped  to  think  whether  the 
voice  was  of  the  past  or  of  the  present;  there 
may  have  been  tears  in  my  eyes,  I  do  not  know, 
I  only  know  that  I  was  aroused  from  my  sad 
reverie  by  Walter's  voice  at  my  side,  saying 
very  gently,  *' Don't  take  it  quite  so  hard,  Zel- 
phine;  you  know  that  Amy  never  really  came 

88 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


to  Kenilworth,  and  the  great  pageant  took 
place  long  after  her  death." 

''I  don't  care,"  I  said;  ''Sir  Walter  Scott 
pictured  her  here  and  I  shall  always  think  of 
her  in  this  little  room,  no  matter  what  dates 
and  facts  say  about  it.  And  those  verses — did 
you  ever  hear  anything  so  weird  and  touching?" 

*'The  ghost  of  the  Ladye  Amye,"  said  Wal- 
ter. "She  does  not  appear  by  daylight,  she 
only  recites." 

"Now,  really,  Walter,  do  you  think  that  some 
one  is  kept  here  to  repeat  those  verses  when 
parties  of  visitors  arrive?" 

"Aunt  Cassie  has  a  wonderful  memory,"  said 
Lydia  Mott,  her  head  just  then  appearing  above 
the  stairway,  as  if  in  answer  to  my  question, ' '  and 
she  always  seems  to  have  her  poetry  on  tap." 

Something  more  than  a  good  memory,  a  gift 
of  sympathy  and  a  power  that  we  should  call 
dramatic  if  she  were  not  a  good  Quakeress, 
enabled  Miss  Cassandra  to  enter  so  completely 
into  the  spirit  of  the  place  and  its  associations 
and  so  to  carry  us  with  her  (Walter,  too,  despite 
his  jesting)  that  the  years  were  swept  aside  like 
a  veil  and  we  shared  for  the  moment  Amy  Rob- 
sart's  sorrows,  her  hopes,  and  her  fears. 

WTien  we  questioned  Miss  Cassandra  about 
the  poem,  she  said  that  it  was  to  be  found  in 

89 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Evan's  Ancient  Ballads,  that  Walter  Scott  had 
been  impressed  by  it  in  his  boyhood,  and  that 
it  first  attracted  him  to  the  sad  story  of  Amy 
Robsart.  It  is  odd  that  she  is  called  Countess 
of  Leicester  in  the  ballad  and  in  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  novel,  although  she  was  only  Lady  Dud- 
ley, as  it  appears  that  Robert  Dudley  did  not 
receive  his  title  of  Earl  Leicester  until  after 
the  death  of  his  first  wife. 

We  selfishly  rejoiced  that  no  other  tourists  or 
"trippers"  were  at  Kenilworth  to-day  to  dis- 
turb our  reveries,  and,  a  rather  quiet  party,  we 
drove  away  from  this  monument  of  the  Earl  of 
Leicester's  pride,  his  ambition,  and  his  heart- 
less cruelty. 

Miss  Cassandra  suggested  a  drive  to  Cumnor 
Hall  while  our  minds  were  filled  with  thoughts 
of  Amy  Robsart,  but  the  driver's  common  sense 
acted  as  a  check  to  our  enthusiasm.  He  advised 
us  to  visit  Cumnor  from  Oxford,  a  drive  of 
about  four  miles  from  that  town;  but,  with  an 
amiable  desire  to  humor  our  fancies,  he  sug- 
gested an  afternoon  excursion  to  the  Leicester 
Hospital  at  the  west  end  of  High  Street,  where 
some  relics  of  Lady  Amye  Dudley,  as  her  name 
is  written  in  some  of  the  old  chronicles,  are 
still  to  be  seen. 

"By  all  means!"  exclaimed  Miss  Cassandra. 

90 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


'^Let  us  go  to  the  Hospital  and  see  something 
good  that  Leicester  has  left  behind  him.  We 
have  seen  quite  enough  of  the  evil.  Did  you 
notice  the  tomb  and  effigy  of  his  little  deformed 
son  at  St.  Mary's?  The  child's  rich  gown  is 
decorated  with  fleur-de-lys,  cinquefoils,  and 
ragged  staves,  a  collar  of  lace  is  around  his 
neck,  and  his  poor  little  feet  rest  upon  the 
muzzled  bear  of  the  Beauchamps.  The  inscrip- 
tion,— ^perhaps  you  did  not  stop  to  read  it, — 
proclaims  '  this  noble  impe  scion  Eobert  of  Dud- 
ley, Baron  of  Denbigh,  sonne  of  Eobert,  Earl 
of  Leycester,  nephew  and  heir  unto  Ambrose, 
Erie  of  Warwike,'  then  there  follows  a  line  of 
titled  and  princely  ancestors  and  kinsfolk 
longer  than  the  four-year-old  child  himself." 

Yes,  we  had  noticed  the  tomb  of  the  **  noble 
impe,"  and  we  were  wondering  whether  this 
was  Leicester's  only  child,  as  he  seems  to  have 
left  no  heir  to  his  many  titles  and  vast  estates. 

** Perhaps,"  said  Miss  West,  with  whom  it 
seemed  impossible  to  look  long  on  the  dark  side 
of  any  character,  "it  was  the  sufferings  and 
early  death  of  this  little  son  that  softened  the 
heart  of  the  Earl,  and  led  him  to  do  something 
to  lighten  the  burdens  of  humanity." 

In  view  of  these  charitable  reflections,  we 
were  in  a  most  suitable  frame  of  mind  to  visit 

91 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Leicester's  foundation;  but  we  did  not  go  to  the 
hospital  this  afternoon,  as  our  coachman  made 
still  another  suggestion.  A  garden  party  was 
being  given  in  the  grounds  of  Warwick  Castle 
this  very  day,  an  excellent  opportunity,  he  said, 
to  see  the  park  and  gardens  at  their  best. 

If  it  was  our  pleasure,  our  Jehu  would  drive 
us  to  the  old  stone  bridge  over  the  Avon,  from 
which  there  is  a  fine  view  of  the  castle,  and 
afterwards  take  us  to  a  little  garden  cafe  for 
our  luncheon. 

Of  course  it  was  our  pleasure  to  fall  in  with 
a  plan  so  well  arranged.  The  view  of  Warwick 
Castle  from  the  Avon  bridge  is  superb.  No  cas- 
tle that  we  have  seen  elsewhere,  no  palace  of  a 
sovereign,  exceeds  in  stately  beauty  this  ancient 
home  of  Eichard  Neville,  the  King-maker,  or 
more  perfectly  fulfils  our  conception  of  what  the 
stronghold  of  a  great  and  powerful  baron 
should  be.  You  and  I  saw  Warwick  Castle 
through  mist  and  rain,  but  standing  out  in  the 
sunshine  to-day,  its  gray  machicolated  towers 
and  long  line  of  battlements  outlined  against  a 
sky  of  delicate  steel  blue,  with  a  foreground  of 
verdant  meadow-land  through  which  the  silver 
Avon  flows  softly,  it  presented  to  our  eyes  a  scene 
of  ideal  beauty,  only  made  real  by  the  massive- 
ness  of  its  stone  walls  and  huge  buttresses. 

92 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


A  day  away  from  lodging-houses  and  inns  is 
in  itself  a  delight,  and  the  simple  luncheon 
served  to  us  in  the  little  garden  cafe  under  the 
shadow  of  the  castle  walls  was  more  than  satis- 
fying. As  we  lingered  over  our  plum  tart, 
Walter  proposed  the  health  of  the  coachman, 
who  was  standing  near  the  entrance  gate.  This 
we  drank  in  ginger  beer  of  the  landlady's  own 
make.  We  wondered  why  she  looked  so  pleased, 
smiling  and  blushing,  as  she  stood  before  us 
opening  the  bottles,  until  Miss  West,  with  her 
clever  way  of  getting  at  the  root  of  things, 
discovered  that  the  coachman,  whom  we  were 
toasting  in  his  own  beer,  was  her  husband. 
Could  a  Yankee  from  the  land  of  the  wooden 
nutmeg  have  done  better  ?  The  additional  drive 
to  the  bridge  over  the  Avon,  the  dinner  at  the 
inn,  and  perhaps  a  share  of  the  fee  of  a  shilling 
from  each  one  as  we  entered  the  grounds,  were 
all  admirably  arranged. 

"Well,  I  'm  satisfied  to  have  him  make  some- 
thing off  us,"  said  Miss  Cassandra,  as  we 
passed  the  embattled  gateway  and  into  a  wind- 
ing road  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock.  *'He  has 
added  so  much  to  our  pleasure.  Nothing  could 
be  more  delightful  than  this,  and  after  all,  when 
you  reflect  upon  it,  where  did  the  Yankees  come 
from,  if  not  from  England?" 

93 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Miss  Cassandra's  conundrum  would  probably 
have  led  to  an  animated  discussion  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  but  the  view  from  the  outer 
court  of  Guy's  Tower  rising  before  us  on  one 
side  and  Caesar's  Tower  on  the  other,  both  an- 
cient and  massive  yet  exquisitely  symmetrical, 
claimed  our  attention  to  the  exclusion  of  every- 
thing else.  Walter  was  much  interested  in  the 
boldly  projecting  machicolations  near  the  top 
of  CaBsar's  Tower  and  the  sloping  base  from 
which,  he  says,  missiles  thrown  from  the  top 
would  be  deflected  into  the  ranks  of  the  attack- 
ing party — a  most  ingenious  device  I 

The  gateway  with  its  barbican  was  once  pro- 
tected by  a  drawbridge.  Now  the  ancient  moat 
is  bridged  by  an  arch. 

"If  only  this  drawbridge  were  in  working 
order  we  could  feel  that  we  were  living  over 
again  the  pages  of  Scott!"  I  exclaimed,  as  we 
passed  over  the  arch  and  through  the  second 
gate. 

"You  have  lived  quite  enough  in  the  pages 
of  Scott  to-day,  Zelphine.  The  present  scene 
is  more  wholesome  and  far  more  to  my  taste," 
said  Walter,  as  the  great  gates  swung  open, 
revealing  to  our  eyes  a  vista  of  enchanting 
loveliness.  I  wish  I  could  give  you  some  idea 
of  the  beauty  of  that  sylvan  scene ;  a  combina- 

94 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


tion  of  the  richest  exuberance  of  nature  and  the 
most  skilful  cultivation.  You  know  that  I  love 
the  wild  beauty  of  our  own  forests  and  the  rich 
verdure  of  our  pasture-lands,  but  really, — now 
don't  laugh  at  me, — I  felt  that  I  had  never  seen 
trees  or  grass  before.  Our  feet  sank  into  the 
greensward  so  far,  that  I  was  afraid  they  would 
never  come  out  again,  and  the  great  cedars  of 
Lebanon  and  the  giant  oaks  and  beeches  reach- 
ing out  their  sheltering  arms  made  refreshing 
coverts  from  the  afternoon  sun.  The  peacocks 
strutting  about  under  the  trees,  with  their 
grand  and  stately  air,  gave  the  needed  touch  of 
color  and  animation  to  the  picture.  At  the  other 
end  of  this  vast  park  there  was  life  and  anima- 
tion to  spare,  for  here  were  the  marquees  in 
which  vegetables,  flowers,  and  fruit  were  ex- 
hibited. The  space  around  them  was  thronged 
with  judges,  competitors,  and  a  large  company 
of  spectators,  including  many  'Hrippers"  and 
tourists  like  ourselves. 

We  spent  little  time  over  the  huge  cabbages 
and  overgrown  turnips  and  marrows  in  the 
marquees,  but  the  wall-fruit,  the  exquisite 
peaches  and  plums,  flanked  by  the  most  gor- 
geous roses,  dahlias,  foxgloves  and  other  flow- 
ers of  brilliant  hue,  held  us  fast  by  their  beauty 
and  fragrance. 

95 


AN   ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

The  Countess  of  Warwick  was  not  present 
to-day,  to  our  regret,  but  we  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  her  sister,  Lady  Gordon  Lenox,  giv- 
ing prizes  for  the  fruit,  flowers,  and  vegetables. 
She  was  charming  in  a  mauve  gown  and  large 
black  hat,  and  with  her  mother  and  a  young 
daughter  of  the  Countess  of  Warwick,  the  Vis- 
countess Hammersley,  in  white  muslin  and  blue 
ribbons,  the  trio  presented  a  most  attractive 
picture  of  three  generations  of  aristocrats. 
However  it  may  please  certain  democratic 
Americans  to 

"  Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent," 

there  is  a  certain  indefinable  quality  that  be- 
longs to  these  high-born  Englishwomen,  some- 
thing in  their  exquisite  dignity  and  repose,  that 
stamps  them  with  the  "caste  of  Vere  de  Vere." 

We  quite  enjoyed  this  scene  from  high  life, 
and  the  form  and  ceremony  attending  the 
presentation  of  the  prizes,  Miss  Cassandra  as 
much  as  the  younger  and  more  frivolous  mem- 
bers of  the  party,  for  Quaker  as  she  is,  she 
dearly  loves  a  bit  of  purple. 

In  passing  through  the  great  hall  of  the 
castle,  where,  by  the  flickering  light  of  torches, 
Piers  Gaveston  was  tried  and  condemned  to 
death,  and  in  the  state  dining-room,  we  saw 

96 


IN   WARWICKSHIRE 


many  portraits  of  high-born  dames,  none  more 
beautiful  to  our  thinking  than  that  of  the  pres- 
ent Countess  of  Warwick.  Before  quitting  the 
Castle  we  walked  around  by  the  conservatory 
to  see  the  famous  *' Warwick  Vase,"  which 
came  from  Hadrian's  Villa.  You  will  be  seeing 
the  villa  soon.  Ah !  what  interesting  and  beau- 
tiful things  are  to  be  seen  in  this  round  world  1 
One  would  surely  need  to  be  in  two  places  at 
once  to  compass  them  all  in  the  brief  span  of 
life  that  is  ours ! 

July  22nd. 

A  fine  rain  was  falling  this  morning,  which 
did  not  prevent  our  taking  the  coach  to  Strat- 
ford, nor  did  it  interfere  with  our  comfort,  as 
we  were  well  protected,  and  by  the  time  we 
reached  our  journey's  end  the  sun  was  shining 
fitfully.  As  we  had  both  been  to  Stratford  be- 
fore, we  had  the  delightful  feeling  of  owing  it 
no  obligation  as  sightseers.  Strolling  at  will 
through  the  quaint  old  streets,  with  their  many 
timbered  houses,  we  realized  as  never  before 
how  entirely  this  town  is  shut  off  from  the 
ordinary  business  of  life,  and  how  complete  it  is 
in  itself  as  the  shrine  of  the  poet  of  all  time, 
whose  name  we  found,  with  singular  inappro- 
priateness,  inscribed  upon  the  burial  records 
of  the  church  as  ''Will  Shakespeare,  Gent,'* 
7  97 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

''The  ancient  is  absolutely  on  top  here,"  as 
Walter  expresses  it,  ' '  and  there  is  nothing  new 
but  the  Jubilee  Walk,  the  great  bridge  over  the 
Avon,  the  Memorial  Fountain,  and  a  few  trifles, 
upon  which  it  is  easy  to  turn  our  backs  and 
forget  that  we  are  living  in  the  present 
century. ' ' 

At  this  moment,  as  if  to  contradict  his  words, 
and  just  as  we  were  entering  the  Shakespeare 
house  on  Henley  Street,  a  sound  of  many  voices 
reached  our  ears,  and  turning  we  saw  a  host 
of  Cook's  tourists  ready  and  able  to  overcome, 
by  their  numbers  and  quality,  the  most  pene- 
trating and  romantic  associations.  One  voice 
rising  above  the  others  reached  our  ears: 
''Well,  I  have  sometimes  felt  like  believing  in 
the  Bacon  theory,  but  this  old  house  and  the 
grave  in  the  church  knocks  Bacon  'into  a  cocked 
hat.'  " 

We  agreed  with  the  speaker  entirely  and  yet 
we  were  not  disposed  to  claim  her  as  a 
countrywoman. 

"They  have  evidently  been  to  the  church," 
said  Walter,  in  a  tone  of  relief.  "Let  us  go 
there  first  and  come  back  to  the  house  when 
peace  has  been  restored." 

The  lime  avenue  is  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and 
the  old  elms  and  the  Gothic  bridge  and  the 

98 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


poetry  and  charm  of  the  church,  as  it  stands 
upon  the  Avon  near  where  it  **to  the  Severn 
flows."  We  stopped  to  examine  the  sanctuary 
knocker  to  whose  great  iron  ring  many  a  fugi- 
tive has  doubtless  clung  and  found  protection; 
but  once  inside  the  church  we  felt,  with  Wash- 
ington Irving,  that  it  was  impossible  to  dwell 
upon  anything  that  is  not  connected  with 
Shakespeare.  "His  idea  pervades  the  place; 
the  whole  pile  seems  but  as  his  mausoleum. 
The  feelings  no  longer  checked  and  thwarted 
by  doubt,  here  indulge  in  perfect  confidence." 
Standing  in  the  chancel  we  blessed  the  grue- 
some inscription  upon  the  flat  stone  in  the  floor, 
which  has  prevented  and  will  forever  prevent 
the  removing  of  the  ashes  of  the  poet  to  any 
less  fitting  spot.  Walking  afterwards  by  the 
soft  flowing  Avon,  by  whose 

"silver  stream 
Of   things   more   than   mortal   sweet,  Shakespeare    would 
dream," 

we  enjoyed  the  indescribable  beauty  of  the 
miniature  scene,  the  picturesque  old  church  on 
the  river,  and  the  Memorial  Building  which  is 
really  fine  and  needs  only  the  softening  touch 
of  time  to  subdue  its  color  into  a  hue  more  in 
harmony  with  its  surroundings. 

99 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

We  went  to  the  Red  Horse  Hotel  because 
"Washington  Irving  had  stopped  there,  and  saw 
a  chair  that  he  sat  in,  and  the  poker  with  which 
he  stirred  the  fire,  when  he  asked  himself, 
*' Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?'* 

The  Red  Horse  was  not  a  place  for  ease  or 
comfort  to-day,  as  it  was  infested  by  American 
tourists  of  the  class  that  excited  Mr.  Edgar 
Fawcett's  wrath  when  he  wrote  about  those 
**who  seat  themselves  on  the  ruins  of  the 
Acropolis  at  Athens  and  discuss  the  probable 
engagement  of  Jane  Briggs,  the  belle  of  East 
Brighamyoungtown,  Utah,  to  James  Diggs,  an 
acknowledged  Beau  Brummel  of  the  same 
village. ' ' 

*'I  wonder  why  they  came,'*  I  said,  not  ex- 
pecting an  answer,  but  rather  thinking  aloud. 

*'Many  of  them  for  the  sake  of  having  been 
to  Shakespeare's  town,"  said  "Walter,  while  a 
pleasant-faced  English  lady,  who  was  standing 
near  us,  said,  ''Do  you  know  that  of  the  thirty 
thousand  and  more  visitors  who  come  to  Strat- 
ford annually  nearly  a  fourth  are  your  com- 
patriots?" 

We  did  not  know  this  and  quite  agreed  with 
the  speaker  that  these  tourists  were  doing  a 
good  work  in  helping  to  keep  up  this  place.  As 
we  walked  toward  a  little  tea-house,  where  our 

100 


IN   WARWICKSHIRE 


new  acquaintance  told  us  we  should  find  a  good 
luncheon  and  the  blessing  of  a  quiet  room,  she 
remarked  quite  seriously,  "Americans  seem 
quite  different  to  what  they  used  to  be.  They 
used  to  talk  like  English  people,  but  now  so 
many  of  them  had  a  lingo  of  their  own," 
concluding,  with  a  rising  inflection  of  her  deli- 
cious voice,  ''Is  it  not  so?"  There  was  noth- 
ing in  the  slightest  degree  rude  in  the  lady's 
question,  as  in  some  indefinable  and  graceful 
fashion,  only  possible  to  the  well  bred,  she  gave 
us  to  understand  that  she  did  not  include  us  in 
her  query.  We  tried  to  explain  to  her  that  the 
American  en  voyage  is  not  always  the  best 
representative  of  his  nation,  and  Walter  said 
that  she  had  probably  been  so  unfortunate  as  to 
meet  some  of  our  compatriots  who  had  made 
money  rapidly  and  had  not  enjoyed  educational 
advantages  equal  to  their  fortunes,  adding, 
' '  These  men  and  women  belong  to  a  class  which 
in  England  would  not  travel  extensively.  With 
us,  it  is  different;  the  American  who  makes 
money  usually  has  an  ambition  to  see  the  world. 
These  people  may  appear  crude  and  ignorant, 
but  they  will  learn  something  before  they  go 
away,  and  even  the  superficial  knowledge  that 
they  gain  of  your  older  civilizations  will  stimu- 
late them  to  read  and  study  at  home,  and  their 

101 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

children  will  come  to  these  old  countries  better 
prepared  to  appreciate  what  they  see. ' ' 

The  lady  exclaimed,  **Keally!  fancy!"  with 
the  most  charming  expression  of  interest  and 
intelligence,  but  I  doubt  her  grasping  the  situa- 
tion at  all;  it  is  so  impossible  for  English  people 
to  understand  America  and  Americans.  Wasn't 
it  fine  of  Walter  to  rise  so  valiantly  to  the  sup- 
port of  his  unappreciated  compatriots  whom  we 
have  been  dodging  all  morning? 

We  had  an  hour  in  the  Shakespeare  house — 
such  a  comfortable  looking  old  house  it  is! 
The  home  of  well-to-do  people,  I  should  say.  You 
surely  remember  the  great  fireplace  with  the 
closets  for  hanging  the  bacon  on  each  side,  and 
the  lovely  garden  at  the  back,  set  about  with 
the  flowers  mentioned  in  Shakespeare's  plays 
• — pansies,  violets,  rosemary,  rue,  and  all  the 
rest. 

Anne  Hathaway 's  garden  looked  very  gay, 
this  afternoon,  with  its  many  old-fashioned 
flowers.  I  brought  away  some  lavender  for 
you,  as  you  and  I  thought  it  the  sweetest  we 
had  ever  smelled.  There  is  some  very  nice 
china  and  furniture  in  the  cottage,  especially  a 
handsome,  richly-carved  bedstead  with  a  piece 
of  Anne's  needlework  upon  it.  This  bedstead 
is  quite  worthy  of  the  **best  feather  bed," 

102 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


which,  according  to  Dr.  Furness,  Anne  already 
owned  when  her  husband  left  her  the  much- 
talked-of  ''second  best  feather  bed."  Most 
interesting  of  all  is  the  room  on  the  first  floor 
with  the  settle  by  the  fireplace  where  William 
and  Anne  were  wont  to  sit  during  their  court- 
ship. Do  I  believe  in  all  of  these  associations  1 
Yes,  you  know  well  that  I  have  never  joined  the 
ever  increasing  army  of  doubters  who  are  al- 
most as  bad  as  the  Baconians.  When  Walter 
and  I  were  looking  over  some  of  the  earlier 
editions  of  the  plays  in  the  Shakespeare  house, 
it  seemed  to  us  that  everything  could  be  proved 
from  these  old  folios.  One  interested  us  espe- 
cially, a  volume  of  1623  which  belonged  to  one 
Digges;  on  the  fly-leaf  are  some  verses  about 
the  deceased  author,  Mr.  William  Shakespeare, 
which  I  tried  to  copy  for  you  and  which  I  failed 
to  do  because  the  writing  is  so  difficult  and  the 
spelling  so  original. 

Oxford,  July  23rd. 

We  have  come  here  to  meet  Miss  Cassandra 
and  Miss  Lydia  and  take  the  drive  to  Cumnor. 
Before  we  left  Warwick,  this  morning,  we  made 
our  visit  to  the  Lord  Leycester  Hospital,  as  they 
call  it  there,  a  most  interesting  old  foundation 
for  twelve  poor  brothers.  The  quaint,  half- 
timbered  building,  with  its  many  gables,  is  of 

103 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

earlier  date  than  the  rest  of  the  hospital,  and 
the  old  quadrangle  is  very  picturesque. 
Leicester's  cognizance  is  frequently  repeated 
throughout  the  building,  but  what  interested 
us  particularly  were  the  memorials  of  Amy 
Dudley,  an  elaborate  piece  of  needlework  by 
her,  and,  strange  to  relate,  framed  and  hung 
up  on  one  side  of  the  wall  are  the  selfsame 
verses  that  Miss  Cassandra  repeated  to  us  at 
Kenilworth. 

We  drove  to  Cumnor  this  afternoon.  It  is 
only  four  miles  from  Oxford,  and  I  here  and 
now  frankly  confess  that  we  were  grievously 
disappointed.  Even  the  old  inn  where  Tressi- 
lian  stopped  is  quite  different  from  the  fascinat- 
ing five-gabled  house,  with  the  sign  of  the  bear 
and  ragged  staff  on  a  high  pole,  as  it  appears 
in  the  illustrated  editions  of  Kenilworth.  An- 
thony Foster's  house  has  suffered  the  fate  of 
the  dwellings  of  the  wicked  in  the  Scriptures; 
there  is  absolutely  nothing  left  of  it  except  an 
old  fireplace. 

The  church,  which  is  quite  near  the  house, 
and  very  ancient,  is  the  only  building  in  good 
condition.  Here  we  found  a  curious  statue  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  said  to  have  been  sculptured 
by  order  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester.  It  once  stood 
as  an  ornament  in  the  gardens  of  Cumnor  Place, 

104 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


one  of  his  many  compliments  to  his  royal  mis- 
tress. The  stone  figure  seemed  strangely  out  of 
place  in  this  old  church  of  St.  Michael's;  but 
still  more  incongruous  is  the  handsome  monu- 
ment in  memory  of  Anthony  Foster  and  his 
wife,  with  kneeling  figures,  blazonings  and  a 
laudatory  inscription,  in  which  he  is  described 
as, 

"  Meet  Scion  of  a  gentle  ancestry, 
The  Lord  of  Cumnor  Berks,  was  Anthony." 

Upon  reading  these  words,  and  the  several 
compliments  inscribed  upon  the  tomb.  Miss  Cas- 
sandra's indignation  knew  no  bounds,  and,  as 
she  says,  *'Why  should  Leicester  have  placed 
such  an  inscription  over  Anthony  Foster  if  not 
to  cover  up  his  own  guilt?'*  Even  if  it  cannot 
be  proved  that  he  and  Leicester  connived  at 
the  death  of  Amy  Dudley,  the  circumstances 
surrounding  it  were  most  suspicious.  All  the 
servants  were  away  from  Cumnor  Place  at  the 
time,  and  coming  home  late  from  the  Abingdon 
Fair  they  found  poor  Amy's  dead  body  upon 
the  floor  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  steps.  There 
were  tales  of  some  insecure  boards  in  the  floor- 
ing of  her  room,  so  placed  that  they  would  give 
way  at  the  pressure  of  the  lightest  foot-fall, 
but  nothing  was  proved  at  the  trial  and  now 
Cumnor  Hall  is  level  with  the  ground  and  can 

106 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

tell  no  tales.  Is  it  not  all  gruesome  and  sad? 
And  as  if  to  make  these  tragic  associations  with 
Ajny  Dudley  more  real,  we  are  living  nearly 
opposite  the  church  of  St.  Mary  the  Virgin,  in 
whose  choir  she  is  buried ;  and  one  of  the  scenes 
represented  in  the  great  historic  pageant  held 
here  early  in  the  summer  was  her  funeral  pro- 
cession. Passing  through  the  streets  through 
which  the  cortege  passed  in  September,  1560, 
from  Gloucester  Hall  to  St.  Mary's,  the  Vice 
Chancellor  leading  and  a  number  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  University  in  gowns  and  hoods 
walking  beside  the  cofl&n,  bearing  heraldic  ban- 
ners, the  scene  must  have  been  much  more  im- 
pressive than  such  representations  usually 
are.  All  the  records  prove  that  Lord  Dudley 
did  not  follow  his  wife's  body  to  the  grave, 
consequently  he  was  not  a  figure  in  this  pro- 
cession, although  he  was  conspicuous  in  some 
gayer  scenes,  as  when  Queen  Elizabeth  was 
received  at  Oxford  and  at  Kenilworth. 

The  town  still  resounds  with  echoes  of  the 
pageant,  and  the  shop  windows  are  filled  with 
pictures  and  pamphlets  about  it.  A  young  man 
in  one  of  the  book-shops  told  me  with  pride  that 
he  had  taken  the  part  of  the  Lord  Chancellor. 
Some  English  dowagers  in  the  hotel,  large, 
florid  dames,  with  such  structures  of  tulle  and 

106 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


flowers  upon  their  heads  as  are  only  to  be  found 
in  the  British  Isles,  showed  an  amiable  desire 
to  converse  with  us  this  evening.  We  asked 
them  some  questions  about  the  pageant,  of 
which  they  had  spoken  several  times.  They 
g^ve  us  the  desired  information,  but  in  a  tone 
of  evident  condescension  and  with  so  marked 
a  note  of  contempt  for  a  nation  that  could  not 
boast  its  thousands  of  years  of  history,  that 
Lydia  Mott's  freeborn  American  spirit  was 
thoroughly  aroused  and  she  suddenly  sailed  in 
and  had  what  Walter  calls  ''her  innings." 
Lydia  is  one  of  the  rare  people  who  do  not 
speak  unless  they  have  something  to  say,  when 
she  does  speak  it  is  to  some  purpose,  and  upon 
this  occasion  she  waxed  eloquent. 

After  expatiating  upon  the  picturesqueness 
of  our  American  Indian  life,  she  described  at 
length  our  own  pageant  in  commemoration  of 
the  two  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  settle- 
ment of  Pennsylvania.  Although  she  must  have 
been  a  child  at  the  time,  she  remembered  all 
the  details  far  better  than  I  did. 

"And  where  did  those  settlers  that  you  speak 
of  come  from?"  asked  the  first  dowager. 

**Prom  England,"  replied  Lydia,  somewhat 
surprised  at  the  question,  and  then  rallying 
to  the  charge.    "They  were  Quakers  who  were 

107 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

so  badly  treated  in  England  that  they  had  to 
come  to  xYmerica  for  protection." 

"Fancy!"  exclaimed  the  second  dowager.  "I 
think  I  have  heard  of  the  Quakers.  They  wore 
strange  clothes  and  spoke  quite  ungrammati- 
cally, I  believe." 

**I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  Lydia, 
nothing  daunted;  "that  is,  after  all,  quite  a 
matter  of  opinion." 

Miss  Cassandra  looked  unutterable  things  at 
me,  but  kept  her  lips  firmly  closed. 

Lydia  then  proceeded  to  outline  certain 
pageants  that  could  be  given  in  America.  The 
landing  of  John  Smith  and  his  company  at 
Jamestown;  the  arrival  of  the  Plymouth  Set- 
tlers; William  Penn's  Treaty  with  the  Indians, 
and  the  surrender  of  Yorktown.  The  latter 
scene  was  described  with  so  much  spirit  that 
the  dowagers  might  have  taken  it  for  granted 
that  Lydia  had  been  present  at  the  ceremony. 
But  alas  for  the  narrator  and  her  eloquence! 
The  first  dowager,  instead  of  expressing  intel- 
ligent interest,  or  looking  the  least  bit  crest- 
fallen over  the  superlative  importance  of 
American  antiquities,  said,  with  an  inquiring 
look  in  her  eyes  and  a  rising  inflection  in  her 
voice,  "Yorktown?  We  never  say  Yorktown; 
it  is  just  York;  it  is  a  very  ancient  city,  once 

108 


IN  WARWICKSHIRE 


occupied  by  the  Romans.  They  say  that  one 
of  the  Roman  emperors  built  the  walls.  Per- 
haps he  is  the  one  who  surrendered." 

Can  you  imagine  such  density?  Lydia  was 
speechless,  at  last,  but  an  intelligent  looking 
young  Englishman,  who  had  been  listening  to 
the  conversation,  explained  to  his  country- 
woman that  the  surrender  had  taken  place  in 
America  and  was  of  comparatively  recent  oc- 
currence. Then,  his  British  pride  being  touched 
by  Lydia 's  patriotic  harangue,  he  very  adroitly 
took  up  the  cudgels  for  his  own  country  by 
saying  that  the  officer  to  whom  Lord  Comwallis 
had  surrendered  at  Yorktown  was  really  an 
Englishman,  his  family  only  having  been  in 
America  for  two  or  three  generations.  Clever, 
was  it  not?  Turning  again  to  Lydia,  he  said 
very  civilly,  **I  have  never  been  in  the  States, 
but  I  have  been  in  Canada  and  in  the  citadel  at 
Quebec,  on  the  summit  of  that  almost  impreg- 
nable natural  fortress,  which  our  General  Wolfe 
captured  from  the  French,  I  saw  a  cannon  which 
Was  taken  by  us  from  the  Americans  at  Bun- 
ker Hill." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cassandra,  suddenly  en- 
tering the  arena,  "the  British  may  have  taken 
the  cannon,  but  we  kept  the  hill ! '  * 

A  hearty  laugh  followed  this  rejoinder  and 

109 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

the  Englishman,  with  a  good  humor  and  cour- 
tesy that  won  our  admiration,  bowed  to  Miss 
Cassandra,  saying,  **I  have  heard  much  of 
American  valor;  but  of  American  wit  I  have 
now  had  a  practical  illustration."  Was  it  not 
delightful  to  have  our  Quaker  lady  come  off 
with  such  flying  colors?  And  so,  in  gay  good 
humor  with  our  respective  nations,  we  said 
good-night  to  each  other,  as  I  say  it  to  you, 
Margaret,  only  wishing  that  you  had  been  pres- 
ent at  the  war  of  wits. 


V 

A  QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE 


London,  July  25th. 

Miss  Cassandra  persuaded  us  to  accompany 
her  to  Stoke  Poges  and  Jordans.  We  had  in- 
tended to  spend  Sunday  on  Lake  Windermere, 
but  she  says  that  a  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of 
Thomas  Gray  and  William  Penn  is  a  perfect 
Sabbath  day's  journey,  and  that  I  owe  it  to 
my  Quaker  ancestors  to  visit  Jordans.  As 
usual  Miss  Cassandra's  logic  and  eloquence 
prevailed.  I  had  never  thought  much  about 
Jordans  but  I  had  always  longed  to  see  the 
Stoke  Poges  church,  and  Walter  is  ready  to 
go  where  Miss  Cassandra  leads,  she  so  appeals 
to  his  sense  of  humor.  He  says  that  **we  are 
like  Sandford  and  Merton  with  Mr.  Day  when 
we  set  forth  in  the  company  of  her  well-stored 
mind,  only  immensely  jollier." 

We  left  Oxford  by  an  early  train,  or  rather 
as  early  a  train  as  one  can  take  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  when  so  much  diplomacy  is  needed 
in  order  to  secure  breakfast  before  nine  o'clock, 

111 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

but  after  all  our  exertions  we  had  to  wait  so 
long  at  Reading  for  the  London  train  that  we 
did  not  reach  the  Slough  station  until  noon. 

Walter  set  about  securing  a  conveyance  while 
we  ordered  luncheon  at  the  inn.  The  coachmen 
at  the  ** livery"  were  all  out,  but  fortunately 
the  proprietor  himself  had  just  come  in  for  his 
dinner  and  offered  to  drive  us  to  Stoke  Poges 
and  Jordans  with  his  own  team.  This  was  great 
good  fortune  for  us  as  Mr.  Croft  knows  the 
country  well,  and  after  we  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  his  language  (which  is  English,  of 
course,  but  quite  different  from  the  kind  spoken 
in  America)  we  found  him  a  most  helpful  and 
suggestive  guide. 

"We  drove  to  the  church,  St.  Giles,  Gray's 
church,  which  is  less  than  two  miles  from 
Slough.  The  approach  is  through  a  short  pri- 
vate road,  and  by  a  charmingly  picturesque  ivy 
covered  lodge,  from  which  there  is  a  fine  view 
of  Stoke  Manor  House  in  the  distance,  across 
a  broad  sweep  of  deer  park.  On  a  knoll  to  the 
right  of  the  lodge,  marking  the  place  where  the 
poet  sat  when  he  wrote  the  greater  part  of  the 
Elegy,  is  Wyatt's  ungraceful,  inappropriate 
monument,  which  strikes  the  one  jarring  note  in 
the  otherwise  perfectly  harmonious  scene.  One 
can  think  of  nothing  but  the  Elegy  here,  and 

112 


A   QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE 


the  spot  where  it  was  finished,  under  ''the  yew 
tree's  shade"  by  the  quaint  church  porch,  is 
much  more  to  our  taste.  The  woman  in  charge 
gave  us  a  bit  of  the  yew,  which  is  said  to  be 
nine  hundred  years  old,  and  showed  us  the 
*' ivy-mantled  tower,"  and  the  tomb  in  which 
the  author  of  the  Elegy,  his  mother  and  his 
aunt  all  rest.  There  is  a  tablet  upon  the  church 
opposite  the  tomb  saying  that  Thomas  Gray  is 
buried  here,  and  on  the  square  stone  vault  is 
the  inscription  that  the  poet  placed  there,  surely 
the  most  tender  tribute  from  a  son  to  his 
mother ! 

Beside  her  friend  and  sister 

■  here  sleep  the  remains  of 

DOROTHY  GRAY, 

widow, 

the  careful  tender  mother 

of  many  children,  one  of  whom  alone 

had  the  misfortune  to  survive  her. 

She  died  March  11,  1753, 

aged  72. 

No  more  fitting  spot  than  this  could  be  found 
for  a  poet's  last  resting  place,  the  great  yew, 
the  cypresses  and  the  ivy-mantled  church  are  a 
poem  in  themselves,  in  the  lovely  setting  of  this 
peaceful  English  landscape.  Inside  the  church 
we  were  shown  the  Grays'  pew,  and  even  more 
interesting  to  me  the  large  Penn  pew,  really 

8  113 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

a  good-sized  room,  with  a  diamond-paned  win- 
dow, and  a  large  stove  to  heat  it.  In  the  pew 
are  a  half  dozen  beautiful  old  carved  Penn 
chairs.  I  was  fancying  little  William  Penn 
seated  on  one  of  these  chairs  between  his  father 
and  mother,  when  Miss  Cassandra  dispelled 
all  my  illusions  by  telling  us  that  it  was  Wil- 
liam Penn's  son,  Thomas,  who  owned  Stoke 
Park  and  worshipped  in  this  pew  with  his  fam- 
ily, in  proof  of  which  she  showed  me  a  tablet 
on  the  north  wall  of  the  church,  which  records 
the  fact  that  Thomas  Penn,  his  wife,  Lady  Juli- 
ana Fermor,  and  several  children  and  grand- 
children are  buried  in  the  vault  beneath. 

Do  you  remember  that  the  guide  at  Windsor 
Castle  pointed  out  the  Stoke  Poges  Manor 
House,  standing  upon  a  distant  hilltop,  and 
plainly  visible  from  the  terrace,  as  *'the  home 
in  which  William  Penn  brought  up  his  large 
family  of  children"?  We  knew,  of  course,  that 
this  was  a  mistake;  but  it  is  one  that  might 
readily  be  made  by  a  more  intelligent  person 
than  a  guide,  as  so  many  associations  with  Wil- 
liam Penn  belong  to  this  Chalfont  region, 
whither  he  came  acourting  his  Gulielma  and 
where  he  spent  the  early  years  of  his  married 
life.  It  would  be  impossible  for  us,  who  are 
under  the  informing  tutelage  of  Miss  Cassandra 

114 


A  QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE 


and  Mr.  Croft,  to  make  any  very  serious  mis- 
takes; indeed  Walter  says  that  he  is  so  thor- 
oughly steeped  in  the  history  and  traditions  of 
the  Penn  family  that  he  is  quite  prepared  to 
stand  examination  before  any  historical  society 
in  the  United  States. 

There  is  a  village  of  Penn  and  an  old  Penn 
church  near  Chalfont,  but  Mr.  Croft  assures 
us  that  these  Penns  of  Bucks  had  no  close  con- 
nection with  our  Pennsylvania  Penns,  who  were 
of  the  Wiltshire  family. 

I  never  realized  how  much  romance  there  was 
in  William  Penn's  courtship  until  Miss  Cas-  - 
Sandra  told  us  the  story  as  we  drove  up  hill  and 
down  dale  to  Jordans  Meeting  House.  She  has 
also  introduced  us  to  some  delightful  books 
which  she  has  with  her.  'Her  dress-suit  case, 
like  mine,  is  heavy  with  books.  In  one  of  these, 
written  by  a  descendant  of  Governor  Penn,  we 
found  a  charming  picture  of  Gulielma  Springett 
and  her  mother,  the  widow  of  a  Puritan  officer. 
Sir  William  Springett.  After  her  husband's 
death  Lady  Springett,  finding  London  life  dis- 
tasteful to  her,  came  to  live  at  Chalfont  St.  Giles 
with  her  little  daughter.  Here  she  was  warmly 
welcomed  by  a  choice  circle  of  interesting  men 
and  women,  which  often  included  the  poet  Mil- 
ton and  his  secretary,  Thomas  Ellwood.    After 

115 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

several  year  of  widowhood,  Lady  Springett 
married  Isaac  Penington,  and  at  his  home,  the 
Grange,  Guli,  as  she  was  called  by  her  friends, 
a  Puritan  by  inheritance  and  naturally  pre- 
disposed toward  a  protesting  religion,  grew  up 
a  lovely  Quaker  maiden,  beautiful  and  an 
heiress  withal.  Guli's  hand  was  sought  after 
by  many  young  squires  of  the  country  side. 
Thomas  EUwood,  who  taught  her  Latin,  was  not 
insensible  to  the  charms  of  the  pretty  Qua- 
keress, but  he,  as  he  wrote,  **ever  governed 
himself  in  a  free  and  respectful  carriage  toward 
her.'*  Guli,  fortunately  for  herself,  held  de- 
cided opinions  upon  the  choice  of  a  husband, 
and  so  this  pearl  of  womanhood  was  reserved 
for  the  young  Quaker  cavalier,  who  met  her 
at  the  home  of  her  stepfather,  Isaac  Penington. 
There  is  a  charming  allusion  to  his  successful 
courtship  in  a  letter  written  by  Penn  to  his  wife 
and  children  just  before  his  first  visit  to  Penn- 
sylvania. After  urging  his  children  to  obey 
their  mother,  who  was,  he  says,  "the  love  of  my 
youth  and  much  the  joy  of  my  life,"  the  good 
Proprietary  indulges  in  this  refreshing  bit  of 
self  gratulation;  **Love  her,  too,  for  she  loved 
your  father  with  a  deep  and  upright  love,  choos- 
ing him  before  all  of  her  many  suitors." 
Is  it  not  interesting  to  think  of  "William  Penn 
116 


A   QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE 


as  young  and  handsome,  rejoicing  in  Ms  youth 
and  caring  somewhat  for  the  things  of  this 
world?  Miss  Cassandra  scoffs  at  all  of  our  pre- 
conceived ideas  of  the  Proprietary,  who  was, 
she  says,  not  only  handsome  but  possessed  of 
rare  charm  of  manner,  and  dressed  like  most 
young  gentlemen  of  his  time,  even  wearing  a 
sword  in  his  early  youth,  as  Pepys  speaks  of 
his  forgetting  it  and  leaving  it  behind  him  in 
the  carriage.  *'Did  we  think,"  she  asks,  ''that 
William  Penn  was  born  old  and  sedate?"  Wal- 
ter reminded  her  of  the  story  of  the  man  who 
said  he  had  ''never  seen  a  dead  donkey  or  a 
Quaker  baby,"  at  which  our  serious  driver 
laughed  immoderately,  and  so  in  a  merry  mood 
we  drove  down  the  long  steep  hill  at  whose  feet, 
in  a  lovely,  well-wooded  valley,  stands  the 
plainest  and  most  primitive  of  meeting-houses. 
We  entered  the  enclosure  through  a  little 
wicket  gate  and  made  our  way  to  the  small 
white  headstones  that  mark  the  graves  of  Mary 
and  Isaac  Penington,  Thomas  EUwood,  and 
those  of  William  Penn,  his  first  wife,  Gulielma, 
and  Hannah  Penn,  the  wise  and  devoted  com- 
panion of  his  declining  years;  "for  whom," 
said  Miss  Cassandra,  "he  wrote  at  the  time  of 
his  marriage  that  he  had  'long  felt  an  extraor- 
dinary esteem.'  "  "Which  is,  I  suppose,  the 

117 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

proper  and  moderate  language  to  use  in  speak- 
ing of  a  second  wife, ' '  I  said,  not  thinking  much 
of  what  I  was  saying;  but  Walter  looked  sur- 
prised and  was  evidently  so  distressed  by  my 
foolish  words  that  I  was  sorry  that  I  had  spoken 
them,  while  Miss  Cassandra,  blissfully  ignorant 
of  personalities,  expatiated  upon  the  loveliness 
of  Gulielma,  although  willing  to  admit  that 
Hannah  Callowhill  was  an  excellent  woman,  and 
a  judicious  and  helpful  companion  for  a  man 
over-burdened  with  cares,  religious  and  secular. 

Near  the  graves  of  their  father  and  mother 
are  those  of  several  children  who  died  in  in- 
fancy and  that  of  Springett  Penn,  who  lived 
until  early  manhood  and  was  his  father's  de- 
voted friend  and  companion,  a  great  contrast 
to  roystering  young  William  Penn,  Jr.,  who 
**beat  the  watch"  and  otherwise  scandalized  the 
staid  Quaker  citizens  of  old  Philadelphia. 

To  visit  Jordans  with  Miss  Cassandra  West 
is  like  approaching  the  shrine  of  a  saint  with 
a  good  Catholic.  She  was  so  deeply  moved  and 
impressed  upon  this,  her  first  visit  to  the  tombs 
of  these  early  Friends,  that  she  was  in  a  quite 
ecstatic  state.  *'My  dear,"  she  said,  "there 
were  no  better  Christians  in  the  world  than 
these  Friends.  Such  men  and  women  as  Guli- 
elma and  William  Penn,  Isaac  Penington  and 

118 


JORDANS    WITH     THE     FeNN     GrAVES 


Interior   of   iMeeting    House   at  Jordans 


A   QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE 


his  wife,  and  Robert  Barely  of  Ury,  were  sanc- 
tified spirits,  and  the  England  of  their  day  was 
unworthy  of  them,  whatever  mistakes  may  have 
been  made  later."  Miss  Cassandra  is  uncom- 
promisingly orthodox,  and  in  spite  of  her 
breadth  of  mind  has  scant  toleration  for  dis- 
senting Quakers. 

Walter  confided  to  me,  afterwards,  that  he 
and  Lydia  Mott  had  serious  misgivings  as  to 
whether  they  should  be  able  to  get  us  away 
from  the  grave-yard  before  nightfall.  They 
were  anxious,  as  we  had  been  an  hour  earlier, 
to  stop  at  Chalfont  St.  Giles  to  see  the  Milton 
house  and  to  drive  through  the  Burnham 
Beeches  by  daylight.  As  it  happened,  a 
family  party  of  English  people,  on  bicycles, 
** major,  minor,  and  minimus,"  arrived  oppor- 
tunely, and  as  they  were  taking  their  pleasure 
less  solemnly  than  ourselves,  they  broke  in 
upon  our  musings  with  their  merry  talk  and  so 
drove  us  away. 

The  caretaker,  who  with  her  family  lives  in 
a  part  of  the  meeting-house,  showed  us  the  plain 
little  room  in  which  occasional  meetings  are 
still  held.  Finally,  with  our  hands  full  of  pretty 
little  blue  and  purple  flowers,  which  they  call 
** Quaker  ladies*  bonnets,"  we  set  forth  toward 
Chalfont  St.  Giles.    We  drove  by  Bottrels,  the 

119 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

old  farmhouse  in  which  Thomas  Ellwood  lived 
while  he  was  tutoring  the  young  Peningtons 
and  acting  as  secretary  to  Milton,  who  was  then 
living  at  the  ''pretty  box,"  a  mile  distant,  which 
is  still  reached  by  a  winding  lane.  We  re- 
gretted that  we  had  not  more  time  to  spend  in 
this  picturesque  little  town  and  in  the  "pretty 
box,"  in  which  there  are  a  number  of  relics  of 
the  poet.  It  was  while  he  was  living  at  this 
house  at  Ohalfont  St.  Giles,  whither  Ellwood 
had  persuaded  Milton  to  remove  with  his  fam- 
ily from  London  in  order  to  escape  the  Great 
Plague  of  1665,  that  the  poet  finished  Paradise 
Lost.  When  questioned  as  to  what  he  thought 
of  the  book,  Ellwood  said,  *'Thou  hast  said 
much  here  of  Paradise  Lost,  but  what  hast  thou 
to  say  of  Paradise  regained?"  Later,  when 
Ellwood  visited  Milton  in  London,  he  showed 
his  visitor  the  second  poem,  and  said,  ''This  is 
owing  to  you,  for  you  put  it  into  my  head  by  a 
question  you  put  to  me  at  Ohalfont,  which  be- 
fore I  had  not  thought  of." 

The  church,  another  St.  Giles, — we  are  won- 
dering why  the  crippled  saint  so  dominates  this 
region, — ^with  its  Norman  tower,  very  quaint 
old  lych  gate,  and  ancient  brasses  and  monu- 
ments, is  most  interesting.  We  had  not  time 
to  enjoy  it  thoroughly;  but  were  glad  of  even 

120 


A   QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE 


the  little  glimpse  that  we  had  of  it  and  of  the 
odd,  old  houses  near  it.  Lydia  secured  what  she 
considers  a  precious  treasure  in  the  inscription 
from  Timothy  Lovett's  tombstone,  in  the 
churchyard,  which  she  copied.  It  appears  that 
this  Timothy  Lovett,  a  courier,  was  employed 
to  carry  dispatches  to  and  from  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  during  his  campaigns,  hence  the 
lines : 

"  Italy  and  Spain, 

Germany  and  Frane* 
Have  been  on  earth 

My  weary  dance. 
So  that  I  own 

Ye  grave  my  greatest  friend, 
That  to  my  travels 

All  has  put  an  end." 

From  the  churchyard  there  is  a  fine  view  of 
the  Stone  Meadows,  where  a  cricket  match  was 
in  full  swing,  which,  of  course,  interested  Wal- 
ter, especially  when  Mr.  Croft  told  him  that  a 
famous  cricketing  family,  the  Hearns,  are  na- 
tives of  Chalfont  St.  Giles.  "What  interested 
me  more  was  to  know  that  Oliver  Cromwell's 
army  had  spent  the  night  here  after  the  bat- 
tles of  Aylesbury  and  camped  under  the  great 
elms. 

We  had  not  even  a  half  hour  for  Beaconsfield, 
although  it  was  on  our  homeward  route,  and 

121 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

I  should  have  loved  to  visit  the  tomb  of  Edmund 
Burke  and  to  have  stopped  to  place  a  rose  upon 
that  of  Waller  in  memory  of  his  *'Go,  lovely- 
rose."  Do  you  happen  to  remember  Waller's 
clever  answer  when  Charles  II  taxed  him  with 
making  better  verses  about  the  Protector  than 
upon  his  own  ''Happy  Return"?  "Poets,  your 
Majesty,  succeed  better  in  fiction  than  in 
truth,"  was  the  witty  reply. 

There  are  so  many  places  we  should  like  to 
see, — Chenies,  where  are  the  remarkable  Rus- 
sell monuments;  ''the  House  of  Russell  robed 
in  alabaster  and  painted,"  as  Horace  Walpole 
described  the  curious  effect  of  the  pink  veining 
of  the  alabaster ;  and  Hampden,  where  there  is 
a  monument  to  John  Hampden,  who  Macau- 
lay  said,  "would  have  been,  had  he  lived,  the 
Washington  of  England."  Both  of  these  towns 
are  near,  and  also,  and  not  less  interesting,  is 
the  timbered  farm-house  in  Chorley  Wood, 
where  William  Penn  was  married  to  his  Guli- 
elma,  in  1672.  We  could  spend  a  week  delight- 
fully visiting  these  interesting  places  and  driv- 
ing about  this  beautiful  region,  with  its  many 
parks,  and  as  an  additional  attraction,  to  one 
member  of  the  party  at  least,  Mr.  Croft  assures 
us  there  is  excellent  fishing  in  the  Chess.  It 
was   quite   late   when   we   reached   Burnham 

122 


A   QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE 


Beeches  and  the  falling  twilight  added  to  the 
weird  effect  of  their  great  boles  and  strangely 
gnarled  and  twisted  branches. 

Miss  Cassandra  suggested  our  stopping  for 
tea  at  one  of  the  many  little  cottage  tea-gardens 
which  are  scattered  through  this  woodland 
maze,  remarking  as  she  untied  her  bonnet- 
strings,  that  *' emotions  were  wearing  and 
sharpened  the  appetite."  We  did  not  realize 
how  much  ours  had  been  sharpened  by  the  long 
drive  and  constant  sightseeing  until  some  hot 
buttered  toast  and  scones  were  set  before  us, 
with  strawberry  jam  of  a  flavor  only  to  be  found 
in  Great  Britain. 

We  again  realized  the  wisdom  of  Miss  Cas- 
sandra's suggestion  when  we  reached  Slough, 
as  the  London  train  was  evidently  waiting  for 
us, — they  always  seem  to  be  waiting  over  here, 
— and  there  was  no  time  for  tea  or  dinner  or 
anything  else  before  our  rather  late  arrival 
in  London. 

We  left  Mr.  Croft  standing  upon  the  plat- 
form, apparently  quite  bewildered  by  the  fee 
that  Walter  had  put  in  his  hand,  which,  what- 
ever it  may  have  been,  was  not,  I  am  sure,  out 
of  proportion  to  the  amount  of  pleasure  that 
he  had  given  us.  He  recovered  himself  suffi- 
ciently to  wish  lis  a  pleasant  journey  and  a 

123 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

speedy  return  to  Slough,  and  I  am  quite  sure 
that  he  meant  it. 

We  have  just  parted  with  our  delightful  com- 
panions. They  have  gone  to  Surrey  to  visit 
friends  and  we  leave  for  Bowness  this  after- 
noon. We  hope  to  meet  again  at  Oxford  in 
August,  as  Walter  has  an  engagement  then 
with  one  of  his  favorite  University  Extension 
lecturers. 

I  had  an  hour  in  which  to  write  this  letter, 
while  Walter  went  to  the  Savoy  to  look  up  an 
American  friend.  We  afterwards  went  to 
Brown  Shipley's  and  at  Trafalgar  Square, 
while  we  stood  looking  at  the  great  lions  on 
the  Nelson  monument,  we  noticed  the  police 
clearing  the  street,  and  everyone  being  pushed 
on  to  the  sidewalk,  as  if  awaiting  a  procession. 
We  stopped  and  gazed  with  the  crowd,  and  soon 
a  carriage  came  along  with  two  gentlemen  in- 
side, and  no  outriders.  It  was  the  King  and 
the  Prince  of  Wales  on  their  way  to  the  sta- 
tion, the  former  en  route  to  Marienbad  to  meet 
Emperor  Francis  Joseph  of  Austria  and  to  take 
the  cure.  The  King  looks  well  and  happy  and 
apparently  much  less  in  need  of  a  cure  than  the 
Prince,  who  is  so  slight  and  delicate  and  grows 
more  and  more  like  his  cousin,  the  Czar. 

As  Walter  had  telegraphed  from  Oxford  to 

124 


A   QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE 


have  our  letters  held  at  Brown  Shipley's  we 
found  quite  a  budget,  enough  to  occupy  and 
entertain  us  upon  our  journey  northward. 
Among  other  letters  was  one  giving  the  date  of 
the  children's  sailing,  and  your  charming  letter 
from  Assisi.  I  cannot  say  that  I  envy  you,  you 
dearest  Margaret,  as  you  deserve  all  the  good 
things  that  the  gods  bestow;  and  then  I  am 
quite  too  happy  to  envy  any  one ;  but  I  should 
love  to  see  that  dear  little  hill  town  again.  I  am 
rejoiced  to  hear  you  say  that  St.  Francis  and 
Santa  Chiara  are  as  real  to  you  as  upon  your 
first  visit,  and  that  Allan  has  fallen  under  the 
spell  of  their  enchantments. 

A  letter  from  Angela  was  among  the  others. 
She  is  evidently  bored  by  the  monotony  of  the 
life  at  Carlsbad  and  says  that  she  can  well 
understand  all  about  Madame  de  Stael  and  the 
Rue  de  Bac,  for  beautiful  as  Carlsbad  is  she 
finds  it  deadly  dull  and  would  prefer  a  third- 
class  London  hotel  to  the  large  and  imposing 
one  in  which  she  is  stopping,  with  a  band  play- 
ing at  all  hours  of  the  day.  ''The  mountain 
walks  at  Carlsbad,"  she  says,  ''are  romantic 
and  lovely ;  but  they  are  filled  with  people  walk- 
ing, and  drinking  at  the  various  springs,  and 
then  walking  again,  and  talking  of  their  vari- 
ous maladies  in  between  drinks,  all  of  which 

125 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

is  not  especially  exciting,  not  to  be  compared 
with  the  delightful  roving  life  that  you  and 
Walter  are  leading.  Could  you,  would  you 
allow  me  to  join  you,  if  I  promise  to  be  very 
good  and  give  you  no  trouble!  I  shall  prob- 
ably be  able  to  find  company  as  far  as  London, 
in  the  next  week  or  ten  days,  and  from  there 
I  can  reach  you  wherever  you  are. 

**  Mamma  and  papa  and  Mrs.  Coxe  are  so 
interested  in  their  several  cures  that  they  will 
not  miss  me.  Every  two  or  three  days  they 
tell  me,  with  the  most  triumphant  expression, 
how  many  pounds  they  have  lost.  They  really 
should  be  shadows  by  this  time,  but  they  do 
not  appear  at  all  emaciated  and  are  still  what 
I  should  call  decidedly  plump.  I  am  beginning 
to  think  that  the  scales  are  arranged  to  suit  the 
desired  fatness  or  leanness  of  the  patient, 
although  since  coming  here  we  have  not  met 
one  single  person  who  wished  to  be  fat.  I  fancy 
that  the  thin  people  go  to  some  other  cure 
where  they  are  warranted  to  put  on  flesh  as 
cleverly  as  they  are  supposed  to  take  it  off  here. 
Mrs.  Coxe  and  the  parents  would  send  love  and 
messages  if  they  were  not  all  engaged  in  their 
various  anti-fat  diversions. 

**Now,  really,  dearest  Z.,  I  should  not  dream 
of  intruding  upon  your  solitude  a  deux,  if  you 

126 


A   QUAKER  PILGRIMAGE 


had  not  written  of  travelling  in  trios,  quar- 
tettes, and  even  quintettes,  with  persons  of  vari- 
ous ages  and  denominations." 

How  Miss  Cassandra  would  dislike  being 
spoken  of  as  a  ''denomination"! 

We  telegraphed  at  once  to  Angela  to  say  how 
glad  we  should  be  to  have  her  with  us  and  the 
sooner  the  better.  It  will  seem  like  old  times, 
like  Roman  days  and  days  in  Venice  and  at  the 
Villa  d'Este,  to  have  the  child  travel  with  us 
again. 


VI 

WHERE  POETS  LIVED  AND  LOVED 


"  Old  England," 

BowNESs,  July  26tli. 

"We  came  to  this  most  lovely  spot  last  night, 
dearest  Margaret,  and  are  revelling  in  the  com- 
fort of  a  good  inn  as  well  as  in  the  beauty  of 
our  surroundings.  The  house  is  built  so  near 
the  water's  edge  that  the  drawing-room,  in 
whose  great  bay  window  I  am  writing,  seems 
to  reach  out  into  Lake  Windermere. 

It  is  so  pleasant  to  be  settled  down  for  a  few 
days  after  knocking  about,  from  pillar  to  post, 
that  we  are  taking  life  very  quietly  and  not 
making  any  excursions  to-day,  although  several 
coaching  parties  started  from  here  this 
morning. 

As  we  set  out  for  a  stroll  around  the  little 
town  of  Bowness,  the  church,  another  St.  Mar- 
tinis and  quite  ancient,  dating  back  to  1485, 
drew  us  irresistibly,  and  we  were  rewarded 
for  our  ** early  piety,*'  as  Walter  is  pleased 
to  call  it,  by  finding  some  interesting  old  stained 

128 


WHERE  POETS   LIVED   AND   LOVED 

glass  which,  has  been  carefully  restored,  some 
shockingly  new  frescoes,  and  a  number  of  very 
quaint  epitaphs.  One  of  them,  over  the  grave 
of  a  slave,  Rasselas  BelJ&eld,  a  native  of 
Abyssinia,  bears  these  grateful  lines  upon  the 
tombstone : 

A  Slave  by  birth  I  left  my  native  Land, 
And  found  my  Freedom  on  Britannia's  Strand 
Blest  Isle  Thou  Glory  of  the  Wise  and  Free ! 
Thy  Torch  alone  unbinds  the  chains  of  Slavery. 

This  afternoon  we  made  a  tour  of  Lake  Win- 
dermere, the  winding  lake,  in  and  out  among 
the  lovely  islands,  near  Belle  Isle  and  on  toward 
the  north  end  of  the  lake  where  the  mountains 
form  a  natural  amphitheatre.  Even  if  occa- 
sional showers  forced  us  to  take  refuge  in  the 
cabin,  the  sun  shone  forth  gaily  between  times, 
permitting  us  to  have  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Felicia 
Hemans's  **Dove  Nest,"  which  is  perched  upon 
the  eastern  slope  of  Windermere.  Christopher 
North's  Elleray  is  also  on  this  lake,  and  here 
he  was  working  on  his  ''Isle  of  Palms"  when 
Shelley  brought  his  child  bride  to  Chestnut 
Hill,  some  miles  beyond,  near  Keswick,  where 
is  still  the  ''lovely  orchard  garden,"  smaller 
and  less  charming  than  when  Shelley  and  his 
wife  and  Eliza  Westbrook  enjoyed  there  some 
fleeting  hours  of  happiness,  before  this  apostle 

9  129 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

of  atheism  "descended  upon  Ireland  with 
propagandist  intent." 

It  was  at  Briery,  the  home  of  Sir  James 
Kay  Shuttleworth,  near  Windermere,  that  Mrs. 
Gaskell  first  met  Charlotte  Bronte  and  fomid 
her  the  lovely  person  that  she  described  her, 
with  her  sweet  voice,  expressive  dark  eyes,  and 
gentle  hesitating  manner  of  speaking.  What 
the  rich  and  varied  beauty  of  this  region  was 
to  the  little  authoress,  after  the  bleak  outlook 
of  her  own  moors,  we  gather  from  her  letters, 
and  we  do  not  wonder  that  she  longed  to  drop 
out  of  the  Briery  carriage  and  **  explore  for 
herself  these  grand  hills  and  sweet  dales,"  of 
which  she  had  ''only  seen  the  similitude  in 
dreams,  waking  or  sleeping." 

At  Fox  How,  which  we  saw  yesterday  on  our 
way  hither,  Miss  Bronte  was  invited  to  drink 
tea  with  the  Arnolds,  and  described  it  as  a 
*'nest  half  buried  in  flowers  and  creepers,  the 
valley  and  hills  around  as  beautiful  as  imagina- 
tion could  dream." 

Walter  says  that  I  enjoy  this  visit  of  Char- 
lotte Bronte's  to  the  Lakes  as  much  as  if  I  had 
been  with  her,  and  I  really  believe  that  I  do. 
The  thought  of  this  brave  little  woman  coming 
out  of  her  lonely,  desolate  home,  from  which  her 
two  sisters  had  recently  been  taken,  into  all  the 

130 


WHERE   POETS   LIVED   AND   LOVED 

brightness  and  beauty  of  Ambleside  and  Gras- 
mere,  and  into  the  genial  companionship  of 
Mrs.  Gaskell  and  the  Arnolds,  is  quite  enough 
to  make  one  happy. 

Ambleside,  July  28th. 

Yesterday  being  a  perfectly  clear  day  with 
an  air  blowing  like  that  of  October  at  home,  we 
made  the  excursion  to  Keswick,  passing  by  Fox 
How  and  having  a  glimpse  of  Eydal  Mount 
through  the  trees.  As  there  are  no  relics  of 
Wordsworth  here,  and  as  the  place  is  not  shown 
to  visitors,  none  of  the  coaching  party  thought 
it  worth  while  to  descend  from  their  perches 
to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the  house ;  and  then  we 
expect  to  walk  over  here  some  day  and  see  all 
of  these  interesting  places  by  ourselves  and  at 
our  leisure — Nab  Cottage,  Elleray,  and  all 
the  rest.  Do  you  remember  Christopher 
North's  ''Foresters"?  It  must  have  been  writ- 
ten at  Elleray,  as  the  descriptions  of  the  Lake 
country  are  so  perfect.  I  wish  I  could  find  a 
copy  of  it,  but,  like  many  another  good  book,  I 
fancy  it  is  out  of  print. 

Not  far  from  Eydal  Mount  is  the  picturesque 
miniature  lake,  Eydal  Water,  whose  silver 
bosom  reflects  its  tiny  islets  and  emerald  shores. 
The  long  reeds  that  grow  far  out  in  the  water 
fringe  the  lake  with  their  slender  shafts  and 

131 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

wave  gayly  in  the  breeze,  a  challenge  to  any 
Pan  who  may  be  haunting  these  woods  and 
shores.  Poets  instead  of  river  gods  answered 
the  lovely  lake's  challenge,  and  ''beauty  born 
of  murmuring  sound"  entered  into  their  souls, 
for  from  here  and  from  Grasmere,  where 
Coleridge  and  Southey  often  joined  Words- 
worth in  his  walks,  there  issued  some  of  the 
sweetest  of  our  English  lyrics. 

Overlooking  Rydal  Water  and  under  the 
shade  of  a  friendly  tree  is  ''Wordsworth's 
Seat,"  a  huge  boulder  with  hospitably  shelving 
sides.  Here  we  may  fancy  the  poet  sitting  by 
the  hour  drawing  inspiration  from  the  beauty 
of  the  lake  and  the  picturesque  grandeur  of 
Loughrigg  rising  above  it. 

We  passed  by  Grasmere 's  fair  lake  and 
vale  and  on  to  Helm  Crag,  at  whose  top  a  stone 
wall  defines  the  boundary  between  Westmore- 
land and  Cumberland,  and  a  heap  of  stones 
marks  the  grave  of  Dunmail,  the  last  of  the 
Kings  of  Cumbria.  A  little  way  beyond  is 
Thirlmere  with  Helvellyn  towering  to  a  height 
of  over  three  thousand  feet,  a  vast  altitude  for 
England!  Here  we  had  a  superb  view  of  this 
great  mountain's  jagged  peaks,  and  of  the  Red 
Cove  Crag  from  which  poor  Charles  Gough  fell 
to  his  death  while  climbing  these  hills. 

132 


WHERE   POETS   LIVED   AND   LOVED 

When  Sir  Walter  Scott  came  here,  he  was  so 
deeply  impressed  by  the  story  of  the  finding  of 
foung  Gough's  body,  months  afterwards,  his 
faithful  little  terrier  with  her  litter  of  young 
puppies  beside  her  master,  that  he  wrote  a  poem 
on  the  spot.  It  was  said,  by  some  of  the  dale 
folk,  that  the  little  watcher  had  ''eat  grass," 
but  others  thought  that  she  had  lived  upon  the 
carrion  mutton  that  is  always  to  be  found 
among  these  fellside  precipices  and  in  the  moun- 
tain ghylls.  In  any  case,  it  was  proved  to 
everyone's  satisfaction  that  she  did  not  eat  her 
dead  master.  Although  we  were  greatly 
touched  by  this  story  of  canine  faithfulness,  we 
were  not  moved  to  poetry  like  Walter  Scott  or 
Thomas  Wilkinson.  The  latter 's  description 
of  the  little  dog's  remarkable  three  months' 
vigil  is  simpler  and  better,  to  my  thinking,  than 
Sir  Walter  Scott's: 

"And  when  the  rosy  dawn. 
On  Swirrel's  rocks  and  Striden's  horrors  shone, 
To  her  dead  lord  the  faithful  servant  crept, 
PuU'd  his  damp  robe,  and  wondered  why  he  slept." 

"We  passed  by  the  Castle  Eock  of  St.  John, 
the  scene  of  Scott's  Bridal  of  Triermain,  and 
so  on  to  Castle  Eigg,  from  whose  brow  a  noble 
panorama  of  the  vale  of  Keswick  is  to  be  had, 
with  Derwentwater  and  Brassenthwaite  shining 

133 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

below,  and  Skiddaw  and  Blacathara  towering 
above  them. 

It  did  not  seem  worth  while  to  go  out  of  our 
way  to  see  ''how  the  waters  came  down  at 
Lodore,"  because  we  were  told  that  very  little 
water  was  coming  down  at  present.  Instead, 
we  went  to  Greta  Hall,  Southey's  home  for 
forty  years,  and  then  out  to  see  the  Druid 
Circle,  or  whatever  it  may  be,  with  its  thirty- 
eight  stones,  some  of  them  quite  high.  From 
this  eminence,  and  across  Naddle  Fell,  is  the 
little  church  of  St.  John  in  the  Vale,  said  to  be 
the  highest  site  of  any  church  in  England.  The 
churchyard  is  reverently  and  pathetically  dedi- 
cated "To  the  glory  of  God  and  the  last  long 
sleep  of  the  Dalesmen." 

Our  day  of  coaching  was  altogether  delight- 
ful, but  we  came  back  to  the  shores  of  Winder- 
mere as  to  a  home,  and  feel  that  we  can  say 
of  this  vale,  with  the  poet  who  wrote  of  it  so 
tenderly : 

"  Dear  valley,  having  in  thy  face  a  smile, 
Though  peaceful,  full  of  gladness." 

We  have  moved  over  to  Ambleside  in  order 
to  be  within  walking  distance  of  the  Words- 
worth haunts,  and  as  if  to  be  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  associations  of  the  place  we  are  lodged 

134 


WHERE  POETS  LIVED  AND  LOVED 

in  the  cottage  of  a  Mrs.  Dove.  The  White  Lion 
was  ^'fnll  up,"  but  the  landlady  secured  us 
rooms  in  her  mother's  house  near  by.  We  go 
over  to  the  inn  for  our  dinners,  and  take  our 
luncheons  and  teas  wherever  we  happen  to  be. 
I  have  been  trying  to  get  you  a  photograph  of 
this  tiny  cottage,  set  about  with  nasturtiums, 
marigolds,  and  all  sorts  of  old-fashioned  flow- 
ers, but  you  know  that  I  have  never  been  much 
of  a  success  as  a  photographer. 

July  29th. 

This  afternoon  we  started  a  full  hour  before 
the  coach,  that  was  to  pick  us  up  on  the  road, 
and  walked  all  around  the  little  village  of  Am- 
bleside, by  Harriet  Martineau's  cottage,  the 
Knoll,  which  is  covered  over  with  vines  and  has 
a  pretty  garden  beside  it.  Here  it  was  that  she 
entertained  Charlotte  Bronte  upon  her  second 
visit  to  the  lakes.  The  two  literary  ladies  seem 
to  have  spent  a  week  or  more  together  in  great 
peace  and  happiness,  writing  in  their  separate 
rooms  during  the  morning  and  meeting  in  the 
afternoons  and  evenings  for  walks  and  talks. 
A  perfectly  ideal  way  of  making  a  visit,  is  it 
not?  These  English  people,  probably  from  long 
practice,  have  elevated  the  giving  and  receiving 
of  visits  to  a  fine  art ;  we  might  learn  much  from 

135 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

tliem !  In  a  letter  written  from  the  Knoll,  Miss 
Bronte  says  that  "although  Miss  Martineau 
was  not  without  her  peculiarities,  her  good  and 
noble  qualities  far  outweighed  her  defects." 
They  were  at  one  in  their  enthusiastic  admira- 
tion for  the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  upon  many 
other  subjects ;  but  the  hostess  with  all  her  **  ab- 
solutism" failed  to  convert  the  resolute  little 
Yorkshire  lady  to  her  own  ardent  faith  in  mes- 
merism. A  little  further  along  the  stage  road, 
at  the  foot  of  Nab  Scar,  is  Nab  Cottage,  a  long, 
low  vine-covered  building  with  a  porch  in  front. 
Here  De  Quincey  lived  for  some  years,  and 
here  Hartley  Coleridge,  the  **Li'le  Hartley" 
beloved  of  the  lake  folk,  lived  and  died. 

The  feeling  about  Hartley  Coleridge  is  curi- 
ously strong  among  the  simple  country  people. 
"When  Dean  Kawnsley  asked  whether  Mr. 
Wordsworth  and  Hartley  were  not  great 
friends,  the  answer  was  very  much  in  the  lat- 
ter's  favor.  **He  [Mr.  Wordsworth]  was  a 
cleverish  man,  but  he  wasn't  set  much  count  of 
by  noan  of  us.  He  lent  Hartley  a  deal  of  his 
books,  it 's  certain,  but  Hartley  helped  him  a 
great  deal,  I  understand,  did  best  part  of  his 
poems  for  him,  so  the  sayin'  is.  Na  na,  I  doan't 
think  Li'le  Hartley  ever  set  much  by  him,  never 
was  friendly,  I  doubt.     Ye  see,  he  [Mr.  Words- 

136 


WHERE   POETS   LIVED   AND   LOVED 

worth]  was  so  hard  upon  him,  so  very  hard 
upon  him,  giv'  him  so  much  hard  preaachin' 
about  his  waays."  Wordsworth  and  his  poetry 
were  doubtless  both  quite  beyond  the  under- 
standing of  the  dalesmen,  not  for  ' '  sich  as  us, ' ' 
as  they  expressed  it,  '*noan  o'  us  very  fond  on 
'im;  eh,  dear!  quite  a  different  man  from  Li'le 
Hartley.  He  wasn't  a  man  as  was  very  com- 
panionable, ye  kna." 

One  practical  mark  the  poet  has  left  upon 
the  vale,  [which  the  country  folk  seem  to  ap- 
preciate. He  had  his  own  fancy  about  chim- 
neys. As  one  of  the  cottagers  said,  ''Wuds- 
worth  liked  a  bit  of  colour  in  them.  I  'member 
he  and  the  Doctor  [Arnold]  had  great  argu- 
ments about  the  chimleys  time  we  was  building 
Fox  How,  and  Wudsworth  sed  he  liked  a  bit 
o'  colour  in  'em.  And  that  the  chimley  coigns 
sud  be  natural  headed  and  natural  bedded,  a 
little  red  and  a  little  yaller.  For  there  is  a  bit 
of  colour  in  the  quarry  stone  up  Easedale 
way."  And  so  many  of  the  chimney  stacks  up 
Eydal  way  are  built  according  to  the  poet's 
fancy,  and  a  charming  fancy  it  was  I  I  have 
never  realized  how  much  beauty  there  can  be 
in  chimney  stacks  until  this  summer  when  I 
have  seen  so  much  of  rural  England. 

The  chimneys  are  picturesque  as  well   as 

137 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

everytliing  else  about  Dove  Cottage,  but  how 
tiny  it  is !  The  master  must  have  had  to  bend 
his  tall  head  to  enter  his  own  doorway. 

In  1807  De  Quincey  visited  the  cottage,  which 
was  originally  an  inn  with  the  sign  of  ''The 
Dove  and  Olive  Bough."  His  description  of 
"the  little  white  cottage  gleaming  among  trees'* 
is  not  untrue  to  its  appearance  to-day.  Here 
is  the  same  diamond-paned  window  looking  out 
on  the  road  and  all  embowered  with  roses  and 
jasmine.  This  window  belonged  to  Dorothy's 
ground-floor  chamber,  where  are  still  the  ar- 
ticles of  furniture  used  by  her  and  brought  from 
Rydal  Mount  after  Mrs.  Wordsworth's  death. 
On  the  floor  above  is  the  bedroom  of  the  master 
and  mistress,  the  little  parlor  consecrated  as 
the  poet's  study  by  its  three  hundred  volumes, 
and  beyond  it  the  tiny  guest-chamber,  added 
just  before  Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Scott  visited 
the  Wordsworths  in  1805. 

"I  was,"  wrote  De  Quincey  after  his  first 
visit  to  Dove  Cottage,  which  was  destined  to  be 
his  own  home  for  many  years,  "ushered  up  a 
little  flight  of  stairs,  fourteen  in  all,  to  a  little 
drawing  room,  or  whatever  the  reader  chooses 
to  call  it.  It  was  not  fully  seven  feet  six  inches 
high,  and  in  other  respects  pretty  nearly  of 
the  same  dimensions  as  the  hall  below. ' ' 

138 


WHERE   POETS   LIVED   AND   LOVED 

Standing  in  that  little  parlor  we  thought  of 
all  the  goodly  company  that  had  been  gathered 
there,  for  although  Carlyle  found  Words- 
worth's talk  thin  and  prolix  and  decidedly  not 
to  his  taste,  the  master  of  Dove  Cottage  drew 
to  his  humble  home  many  of  the  great  folk  of 
his  time.  Here  came  Christopher  North,  whose 
eye,  Miss  Martineau  said,  could  ''almost  see 
through  a  stone  wall,"  and  so  beheld  beauty  in 
everything,  and  Sir  Walter;  and  Robert 
Southey  across  the  hills  from  Greta  Hall,  Kes- 
wick, and  Samuel  Rogers,  Humphry  Davy, 
Thomas  Clarkson,  the  friend  of  the  African 
slave,  and  Charles  Lamb.  The  latter  was  be- 
guiled in  1802  from  the  courts  and  nooks  of 
Thames  Street,  the  never-failing  delights  of 
Fleet  Street,  the  old  book-stalls,  familiar  street 
cries  at  noon  and  at  midnight,  dear  to  his 
cockney  heart,  to  behold  for  once  and  to  be 
stirred  to  the  depths  of  his  soul  by  the  glories  of 
Helvellyn  and  Skiddaw.  If  the  walls  of  that 
room  could  speak  what  eloquence  and  genial 
converse,  subtle  humor  and  flashing  wit  they 
would  relate!  Coleridge,  who,  as  Lamb  said, 
talked  like  an  angel,  was  a  daily  visitor  at  the 
cottage  and  quite  ready  to  prolong  his  angelic 
converse  until  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  if 
Dorothy  and  William  would  but  listen. 

139 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Only  second  in  interest  to  the  parlor 
is  Dorothy's  Bower,  the  little  terraced  gar- 
den, which  lies  so  much  higher  than  the 
house  that  the  second-story  rooms  open  into  it. 
The  vines  that  grow  so  luxuriantly  to-day  were 
planted  by  the  poet's  own  hands,  as  were  the 
apple-trees  upon  the  crest  of  the  hill  that  still 
shade  Wordsworth's  out-of-door  study.  Upon 
the  rustic  bench  under  the  trees  he  often  sat 
absorbed  in  thought,  with  the  lovely  panorama 
of  rugged  hills  and  smiling  valleys  spread  be- 
fore him,  and  here  he  entertained  his  brother 
poets  who  made  his  home  their  rallying-place. 
Beneath  the  little  bower  is  the  well  where  the 
brother  and  sister  planted  the  large-leaved 
primroses  and  here  the  hidden  rill  still  sings, 
as  of  yore, — 

"  If  you  listen,  all  is  still, 
Save  a  little  neighboring  rill, 
That  from  out  the  rocky  ground 
Strikes  a  solitary  sound." 

In  this  happy  garden, 

"  whose  seclusion  deep 
Hath  been  friendly  to  industrious  hours," 

and  while  taking  long  walks  around  Grasmere 
Lake  and  Rydal  Water,  or  while  seated  upon 
the  great  roadside  boulder  that  bears  his  name, 

140 


WHERE  POETS   LIVED   AND   LOVED 

there  came  to  the  poet  his  highest  inspirations, — 
winged  fancies  and  thoughts  sublime  flashed 

"  upon  that  inner  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude." 

Indeed,  Wordsworth  has  told  us  himself  that 
nine- tenths  of  his  verses  ''were  murmured  out 
in  the  open  air." 

To  this  little,  low  cottage,  built  upon  a  hill 
side,  Wordsworth  brought  home  his  fair  bride, 
Mary  Hutchinson,  who  had  been  his  school  mate 
at  Penrith,  and  here  the  young  wife  and  dearly 
loved  sister  lived  together  in  harmony  and 
happiness  almost  paradisiacal. 

The  caretaker  assured  us  that  the  small  dark 
kitchen  shadowed  by  the  terrace  is  much  as  it 
was  when  these  two  well-born  and  highly-cul- 
tivated women  performed  all  the  work  of  the 
household  with  their  own  hands.  She  remem- 
bers well  seeing  them  about  their  daily  tasks, 
when  she  came  to  the  house  as  a  child.  Of  the 
tall  old  gentleman  in  his  long  blue  cloak,  who 
walked  about  the  hills  and  vales  muttering  to 
himself  she  and  her  young  companions  were 
half  afraid.  An  old  woman  now,  she  was  a  girl 
when  the  Wordsworths  lived  at  Dove  Cottage, 
and  as  she  showed  us  the  grates  and  fireplaces 
she  told  us  that  they  are  just  as  the  family  had 

141 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

left  them,  and  that  the  poet  used  to  toast  his 
bread  before  the 

"  Half  kitchen  and  half  parlour  fire." 

It  is  impossible  to  read  a  page  of  Dorothy 
Wordsworth's  Grasmere  journal  without  being 
impressed  by  the  pastoral  simplicity  of  life  and 
the  ''high  thinking"  that  reigned  in  Dove  Cot- 
tage in  those  days: 

"Monday. — Sauntered  a  good  deal  in  the  garden,  bound 
carpets,  mended  old  clothes,  read  *  Timon  of  Athens,'  dried 
linen.  ...  In  the  morning  WiUiam  cut  down  the  win- 
ter cherry-tree.  I  sowed  French  beans  and  weeded.  .  .  . 
Coleridge  read  *  Christabel '  a  second  time ;  we  had  increas- 
ing pleasure.  William  and  I  were  employed  all  the  morn- 
ing in  writing  an  addition  to  the  Preface.  ...  A  sweet 
evening,  as  it  has  been  a  sweet  day,  and  I  walked  along  the 
side  of  Rydal  Lake  with  quiet  thoughts.  The  hills  and  lake 
were  still.  The  owls  had  not  begun  to  hoot,  and  the  little 
birds  had  given  over  singing.  I  looked  before  me  and  saw 
a  red  light  upon  Silver  How,  as  if  coming  out  of  the  vale 
below, — 

" '  There  was  a  light  of  most  strange  birth, 
A  light  that  came  out  of  the  earth. 
And  spread  along  the  dark  hill-side.' " 

If  William  chopped  wood  for  the  kitchen  fire 
and  Dorothy  mended  old  clothes  and  sowed 
French  beans,  they  truly  ''walked  among  the 
stars"  when  they  had  finished  their  homely 
tasks  or  while  engaged  upon  them.  That  the 
Wordsworths  were  able  to  sustain  thinking  of 

142 


WHERE   POETS   LIVED   AND   LOVED 

any  kind,  high  or  low,  on  the  combined  sum  of 
the  incomes  of  the  three  inmates  of  Dove  Cot- 
tage was  largely  due  to  the  exertions  of  the 
two  capable  women  who  baked,  brewed,  washed, 
and  stitched  in  the  little  kitchen  under  the  hill. 
Nor  was  this  all.  When  the  daily  tasks  were 
done  the  wife  and  sister  still  had  mind  and 
spirit  to  enjoy  the  last  poem  or  essay  from  the 
pens  of  Coleridge,  Southey,  Sir  Walter,  or  De 
Quincey,  or  to  listen,  with  keen  appreciation,  to 
the  latest  composition  of  the  master  of  the 
household,  who  depended  upon  his  womenfolk 
for  literary  companionship  as  well  as  for  the 
material  comforts  of  life.  In  fine  weather  there 
were  congenial  spirits  to  drop  in  and  discuss 
poetry  and  prose  with  the  young  writer;  but  in 
the  long  seasons  of  rainy  weather  that  come 
often  to  this  Lake  Country,  and  in  the  short 
days  of  winter,  when  the  evenings  are  long, 
it  was  to  Dorothy  and  Mary  that  Wordsworth 
turned  for  the  sympathy  and  encouragement 
that  every  poet's  soul  craves. 

Both  Coleridge  and  De  Quincey  have  left 
pleasant  descriptions  of  Wordsworth's  ** ex- 
quisite sister."  To  the  sensitive  and  im- 
pressionable Coleridge,  Dorothy  Wordsworth 
evidently  stood  first  among  womankind,  and 
she  seems  to  have  given  him  a  place  in  her 

143 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

heart  close  to  that  held  by  William.  ''Her  man- 
ners are  simple,  ardent,  impressive,"  wrote 
Coleridge;  ''her  eye  watchful  in  minutest  obser- 
vations of  Nature;  and  her  taste  a  perfect 
electrometer. ' ' 

De  Quincey  speaks  of  Miss  Wordsworth  as 
"shorter  and  slighter  than  her  sister-in-law, 
her  face  of  an  Egyptian  brown  rarely  met  with 
in  women  of  English  birth."  Although  admir- 
ing greatly  the  remarkable  endowments  of  the 
poet's  sister  and  her  exquisite  sympathy  with 
nature,  he  discovered  in  Mrs.  Wordsworth  a 
greater  refinement  of  manner,  an  ease  and  re- 
pose, that  would  have  caused  her  to  be  pro- 
nounced "very  much  the  more  ladylike  person." 
Very  quiet  was  Mrs.  Wordsworth  despite  her 
"radiant  graciousness,"  entering  so  little  into 
the  general  conversation  around  her,  that  Mr. 
Slave-Trade  Clarkson  used  to  allege  against 
her  that  she  could  only  say  "God  bless  you!" 

Despite  the  sweetness  and  sunny  benignity 
that  De  Quincey  found  in  Mrs.  Wordsworth's 
countenance,  the  country  people,  some  of  whom 
still  remember  her,  speak  of  her  face  as  "nob- 
but  a  plaainish  an."  When  interrogated  as  to 
Wordsworth's  appearance,  an  old  retainer  re- 
plied, "He  was  an  ugly-faaced  man  and  a  mean 
liver"!    Of  the  poet,  another  old  lake  country- 

144 


WHERE  POETS  LIVED  AND  LOVED 

man  said,  * '  Mr.  Wordsworth  went  bnnning  and 
booming  about  and  she  [Dorothy]  kept  close 
behint  him,  and  she  picked  up  the  bits  as  he 
let  'em  fall  and  tak'  'em  down  and  put  'em  on 
paper  for  him.  And  you  med'  be  very  well 
sure  as  how  she  didn't  understand  nor  make 
sense  out  of  'em,  and  I  doubt  that  he  [Words- 
worth] didn't  knaw  much  aboot  them  either 
himself,  but  howiver  there  's  a  gay  lock  o' 
fowk  as  wad  I  dar'  say." 

It  was  while  living  at  Dove  Cottage  in  the 
early  years,  when  ** every  common  sight"  wore 
*'the  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream,"  that 
Wordsworth  wrote  "The  Ode,"  ''The  White 
Doe  of  Rylstone,"  ''The  Excursion,"  and  "The 
Daffodils." 

The  coach  overtook  us  at  Dove  Cottage, 
where  we  had  tarried  long,  and  while  the  other 
members  of  the  party  filled,  quite  filled,  the 
tiny  abode  with  themselves  and  their  raptures, 
we  started  over  to  the  Church  of  St.  Oswald, 
which  is  so  near  the  cottage  that  its  sad  associ- 
ations with  recent  sorrows  drove  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wordsworth  from  their  Grasmere  home,  in 
1813,  to  Rydal  Mount. 

In  a  shaded  corner  of  the  old  churchyard,  by 
Botha's  wave,  are  the  graves  of  Wordsworth 
and  his  Mary.    By  the  side  of  their  tombstone, 

10  145 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYlSfOON 

which  bears  the  simplest  possible  inscription,  is 
that  of  the  poet's  favorite  child,  Dora,  Mrs. 
Quillinan,  and  of  her  husband,  Edward  Quil- 
linan.  Not  far  from  the  grave  of  William 
Wordsworth  is  that  of  Hartley  Coleridge.  The 
last  resting-place  of  this  brilliant  but  unequally 
developed  genius  is  marked  by  a  Celtic  cross, 
and  a  little  farther  to  the  right  in  this  Poet's 
Corner  of  the  Lake  District  is  a  tablet  to  the 
memory  of  Arthur  Hugh  Clough  and  to  his 
sister,  Anne  Clough,  sometime  Principal  of 
Newnham  College,  Cambridge.  Although 
Clough  died  at  Florence  and  is  buried  in  the 
Swiss  cemetery  there,  as  you  know,  this  tablet 
to  his  memory  is  placed  over  the  grave  of  his 
mother,  who  died  at  EUer  How,  Ambleside. 

As  we  turned  away  from  the  little  church- 
yard so  filled  with  tender  memories,  Walter 
reminded  me  of  Miss  Cassandra's  wise  saw 
about  emotions  being  exhausting  and  requiring 
material  support,  and  directed  by  an  old  dales- 
man we  made  our  way  to  an  inn  near  by,  where 
upon  a  lawn  of  green  velvet  a  dainty  tea  was 
being  served  to  some  of  our  party. 

**We  shall  never  have  another  such  after- 
noon!" I  exclaimed. 

"No,  not  until  we  visit  the  shrine  of  some 
other  poet ;  and  now,  Zelphine,  if  you  will  come 

14« 


WHERE   POETS   LIVED   AND   LOVED 

back  to  the  things  of  this  lower  world,  this  tea 
and  these  scones  are  fit  for  gods  and  men. ' ' 

*'And  better  still  for  all  tired  travellers," 
said  one  of  our  party,  an  English  lady  who  was 
sitting  at  a  small  table  near  us,  adding  that  she 
was  ''going  quite  seedy"  but  tea  and  cake  had 
picked  her  up  famously. 

July  Slat. 

We  left  our  own  especial  Dove  Cottage  this 
morning,  at  quite  an  early  hour,  and  climbed 
the  steep  mountain  road  to  the  top  of  the  Kirk- 
stone  Pass.  I  say  climbed  with  some  emphasis, 
as  we  were  politely  requested  to  get  down  from 
the  coach  and  walk  up  the  long  hill  to  a  little 
house  called  the  Travellers'  Eest,  an  inn  where 
untempting  refreshments  are  sold,  and  some 
highly-colored  post-cards  which  give  but  a  poor 
idea  of  the  rugged  beauty  of  the  pass,  especially 
as  we  saw  the  hills  and  the  Kirkstone,  which 
gives  the  place  its  name,  with  the  morning  mist 
curling  from  off  their  sides  just  as  Wordsworth 
wrote  of  them.  Hundreds  of  sheep  were  grazing 
on  the  short  grass  of  the  hill  sides  where  rude 
stone  fences  define  neighborhood  landmarks. 

The  Travellers'  Rest,  situated  at  a  height  of 
about  1500  feet,  is  said  to  be  the  highest  inhab- 
ited house  in  England,  but  a  statistical  English- 
man upon  the  coach  informed  us  that  this  was 

147 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

not  so,  as  the  Cat  and  Fiddle  Inn  not  far  from 
Buxton,  which  stands  at  an  altitude  of  1700 
feet,  is  entitled  to  this  distinction. 

Ullswater  is  as  beautiful  as  Windermere  and 
more  ruggedly  picturesque  than  Grasmere;  but 
it  lacks  their  compelling  charm,  to  our  thinking, 
being  less  thickly  set  about  with  associations 
of  the  poets  that  we  love.  And  yet  we  do  not 
forget  that  it  was  here,  at  Gowbarrow  Park  on 
Ullswater 's  shore,  that  Wordsworth's  daffodils 
danced  in  the  spring  sunshine.  If  we  were  in 
daffodil  season,  I  am  quite  sure  that  we  should 
have  seen  the  gay  blossoms  "dancing  in  the 
breeze,"  as  we  strolled  through  the  Park  this 
afternoon,  just  as  they  appeared  to  Dorothy 
Wordsworth's  sympathetic  eye  when  she  beheld 
them,  on  a  spring  morning,  tossing  and  reeling 
and  dancing,  seeming  ' '  as  if  they  verily  laughed 
with  the  wind  that  blew  over  the  lake,  they 
looked  so  gay,  ever  glancing,  ever  changing." 

We  shall  quit  these  lovely  valleys  with  regret, 
to  journey  into  the  busy  world  again,  feeling 
that  we  are  leaving  behind  us  a  sacred  spot,  a 
shrine  shut  in  by  rugged  hills,  mirrored  in  clear 
lakes,  consecrated  by  the  lives  and  sacrifices, 
the  high  thoughts  and  aspirations,  and  the  noble 
and  gracious  fulfilments  of  some  of  the  wisest 
and  best  of  the  children  of  men. 

148 


VII 
ROMAN  ENGLAND 


Chester,  August  1st. 

When  we  reached  Liverpool  this  morning  we 
found  the  whole  city  en  fete,  with  flags  flying 
from  all  the  buildings.  As  the  papers  had  an- 
nounced, the  King  and  Queen  are  here  to  lay 
the  cornerstone  of  the  new  cathedral,  which  is 
to  be  the  largest  in  all  England.  It  is  to  cover 
an  area  of  ninety  thousand  square  feet.  Is  it 
not  difficult  to  stretch  one's  mind  to  take  in  the 
dimensions  of  a  building  so  vast  in  length  and 
breadth,  with  a  nave  one  hundred  and  sixteen 
feet  high? 

The  streets  were  gay  with  decorations  of  all 
kinds, — long  festoons  of  pink,  white,  and  red 
roses,  the  arms  and  crown  on  red  plush  in  gold 
embroidery,  and  more  flags,  streamers,  and 
bunting  than  are  to  be  seen  even  at  our  own 
celebrations.  We  were  pleased  to  see  some 
Stars  and  Stripes  flying  among  the  English  flags. 
There  were  a  number  of  elaborate  designs, 
wreaths,  and  transparencies  bearing  words  of 

149 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

welcome  to  the  King  and  Queen,  most  frequent 
among  them  being  such  inscriptions  as:  "God 
Bless  our  King  and  Queen,"  *'God  Bless  King 
Edward,  the  Peacemaker. ' ' 

The  English  people  whom  we  meet  say  that 
King  Edward's  reputation  as  a  peacemaker  is 
well  deserved.  It  is  interesting  and  significant 
that  the  rulers  of  the  two  great  English-speak- 
ing nations,  our  President  and  England's  King, 
should  stand  forth  so  prominently  as  aiders  and 
abettors  of  the  world's  peace. 

Unlike  Mr.  Howells,  royalty  seems  "to  come 
our  way."  We  saw  the  King  in  London  and 
here  he  is  again,  his  face  meeting  us  like  that 
of  an  old  friend,  and  a  very  pleasant,  genial 
face  it  is !  He  could  not  have  been  on  his  way 
to  Germany,  as  we  were  told. 

With  no  idea  of  being  able  to  see  anything 
of  the  ceremonies  at  the  cathedral  grounds,  we 
secured  a  carriage  simply  for  the  pleasure  of 
driving  through  the  gayly-decorated  city  and 
viewing  the  immense  concourse  of  people.  As 
we  were  stopping  in  one  of  the  smaller  streets, 
waiting  for  the  crowd  to  disperse,  we  heard 
sounds  of  cheering,  then  came  the  outriders, 
and  then  the  King  and  Queen.  As  they  were 
in  a  high-seated  open  carriage,  we  had  a  good 
view  of  them,  looking  for  all  the  world  as  I 

150 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


have  always  thought  of  Kings  and  Queens  in 
my  childhood,  driving  in  a  grand  coach  amid 
gala  scenes,  all  as  it  should  have  been  except 
for  the  crowns.  We  wished  so  much  for  Chris- 
tine and  Lisa,  but  then  they  would  have  been 
sadly  disappointed  about  the  crowns.  The 
King  was  in  his  red  British  uniform  with  a 
long  white  feather  in  his  military  cap,  and 
saluted  the  enthusiastic  populace  in  soldier 
fashion  as  he  passed.  The  Queen  is  just  like 
her  pictures,  quite  lovely  and  astonishingly 
young  looking,  as  we  saw  her  from  our  coign 
of  vantage.  They  tell  us  that  her  complexion 
owes  much  to  art,  but  no  art  that  has  yet  been 
discovered  could  give  her  her  handsome  eyes, 
which  constitute  her  greatest  and  most  lasting 
beauty.  But,  after  all,  it  is  not  the  Queen's 
beauty  as  much  as  a  certain  indescribable  com- 
bination of  dignity  and  graciousness  that  makes 
her  so  attractive.  Walter  lost  his  heart  to  her 
at  once,  as  all  the  men  do,  I  fancy,  she  is  so 
exquisitely  and  charmingly  feminine.  It  some- 
times seems  as  if  this  quality  were  becoming 
more  rare  as  the  world  moves  on;  and  laugh 
at  us,  as  men  have  done  for  centuries,  because 
of  certain  distinctly  feminine  attributes,  they 
like  us  all  the  better  for  them,  even  enjoying, 
in  a  way,  our  fondness  for  pretty  nothings, 

151 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

chiffons,  and  the  like.  The  Queen  is  purely, 
feminine  in  her  love  for  chiffons,  but  she  never 
leads  or  follows  in  any  extreme  of  fashion, 
especially  in  hats.  Instead  of  the  immense,  ex- 
aggerated structures  they  are  beginning  to 
wear  over  here,  she  had  on  a  quite  simple  little 
toque  of  a  delicate  mauve,  the  same  shade  as 
her  gown,  all  in  exquisite  taste. 

Some  English  ladies  whom  we  met  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Blossom's  this  evening  were 
talking  of  the  King  and  Queen  as  they  love 
to  do,  with  a  pleasant  underlying  sense  of 
ownership. 

In  speaking  of  the  Queen's  beauty  and  youth- 
ful appearance,  despite  the  sorrows  and  trials 
of  her  life,  of  which  latter  they  made  no  secret, 
they  said  that  although  lovely  she  was  not  a 
particularly  clever  woman  and  rather  lacking 
in  a  sense  of  humor,  while  King  Edward  is 
immensely  clever  and  keenly  alive  to  the  humor- 
ous side  of  life.  The  Princess  Charles  of  Den- 
mark is  clever,  they  agreed,  like  her  father, 
who  is  devoted  to  her  as  he  is  fond  of  clever 
people,  but,  they  added,  shaking  their  wise 
heads,  *'the  Queen  is  a  good  woman  and  has 
the  heart  of  the  whole  English  people." 

We  appreciated  our  privileges  in  being  ad- 
mitted to  these  confidences;  and  hearing  the 

152 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


dicta  of  the  good  dames  given  forth  thus  ex 
cathedra,  as  one  may  express  it,  we  felt  that 
valuable  side  lights  had  been  thrown  upon  the 
private  life  of  the  royal  family  of  England. 
Even  if  I  had  known  better  I  should  not  have 
thought  of  differing  from  these  worthy  ladies, 
who  were  as  firmly  established  in  their  opin- 
ions about  their  own  royalties  as  in  their  loyal 
devotion  to  the  ritual  and  observances  of  the 
Church  of  England. 

*'It  must  require  generations  of  life  under  a 
monarchy  to  bring  about  such  a  condition  of 
mind,'*  exclaimed  Walter,  after  the  ladies  had 
withdrawn.  "With  the  very  strictest  ideals  of 
life  and  duty,  these  typical  British  matrons  ad- 
mit to  themselves,  in  a  suh  rosa  fashion,  that 
the  King  has  failings  which  would  be  serious 
defects  in  another  person  and  yet,  with  all  his 
faults,  they  love  him  still  because  he  is  the 
King.  This  English  point  of  view  would  be 
quite  impossible  to  the  average  American.  If 
our  President,  any  of  our  presidents,  should 
fail  to  do  the  square  thing  by  his  wife,  wouldn't 
WG'execrate  him?  But  this  feeling  of  the  sacred- 
ness  of  majesty,  having  survived  the  reigns 
of  Charles  II  and  George  IV,  may  prevail  for 
another  hundred  years  or  so."  From  all  of 
which  you  will  perceive  that  Walter  has  not 

153 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

become  an  anglomaniac.  I  must  confess  that 
I  watched  him  with  some  uneasiness  during 
the  conversation  with  the  dowagers,  fearing 
that  his  uncompromising  Americanism,  which 
amounts  to  a  religion,  might  lead  him  to  ' '  bear 
testimony"  in  a  manner  that  would  have  sur- 
prised his  listeners. 

You  must  know  that  the  King  and  Queen  hav- 
ing left  Liverpool  this  afternoon,  and  there 
being  no  possibility  of  the  Haverford  getting 
in  for  another  twenty-four  hours,  we  have  come 
to  dear  old  Chester  for  the  night.  Before  we 
left  Liverpool  we  had  a  couple  of  hours  in  the 
"Walker  Gallery,  where  we  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  Dante's  Dream  in  color — and  in  what 
richness  of  color !  I  felt  very  much  as  you  and 
I  did  when  we  first  entered  the  Salle  Carre  at 
the  Louvre,  before  the  new  chronological  ar- 
rangement prevailed,  when  so  many  friends  of 
long  standing  appeared  to  us  for  the  first  time 
in  color,  almost  in  the  flesh  as  it  seemed  to  us, — 
the  laughing  Le  Bruns,  the  wonderful  Raphaels, 
Da  Vincis,  and  all  the  rest.  In  the  Walker 
Gallery,  besides  the  pre-Raphaelites  are  some 
Italian,  Flemish,  and  German  paintings,  a  fine 
collection,  that  like  many  other  things  in  Liver- 
pool is  overlooked  because  this  city  is  a  landing 
place  and  most  people  after  a  long  voyage  are 

154 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


tired  of  inactivity  and  wish  to  spread  their 
wings  and  fly  away  somewhere,  anywhere. 
There  really  is  a  great  deal  to  see  in  Liverpool 
and  "Walter  found  the  city  docks,  which  with 
those  of  Birkenhead  extend  for  six  or  seven 
miles  along  the  Mersey,  well  worth  more  than 
the  hour  which  he  had  to  give  them.  The  city 
itself  is  of  a  prevailing  grayness  of  hue,  and 
with  all  the  immense  amount  of  shipping  that 
is  done  here,  in  no  place  that  we  have  seen  in 
England,  is  the  poverty  so  evident.  The  white, 
pinched  faces  of  the  children  and  the  hopeless 
faces  of  the  old  people  quite  haunt  us.  Here  is 
the  poverty  of  Italy,  without  its  sunshine,  its 
flowers,  and  its  picturesqueness.  I  found  Wal- 
ter dispensing  pennies  and  sixpences  among 
the  children  so  liberally  that  we  should  have 
been  followed  by  a  mob  had  it  not  been  for  the 
superior  attractions  of  royalty. 

We  enjoyed  a  walk  on  the  old  walls  of  Ches- 
ter in  the  long  twilight  this  evening,  and  what 
wonderful  walls  they  are,  surrounding  the  city 
in  a  circuit  of  nearly  two  miles!  Even  if  not 
actually  old  Eoman  walls,  they  follow  the  orig- 
inal lines  and  beneath  them  were  fought  battles, 
early  and  late,  from  the  seventh  century  down 
to  the  time  of  the  Civil  War.  Walter  was  de- 
lighted to  find  some  Eoman  antiquities  in  the 

155 


AN   ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Water  Tower.  You  remember  it,  I  am  sure. 
It  is  the  picturesque  ivy-grown  tower,  with  a 
statue  of  Queen  Anne  at  the  head  of  the  steps 
which  lead  into  the  garden.  Walter's  interest  in 
Roman  antiquities  is  unflagging  and  adds  so 
much  zest  to  our  trip.  We  have  come  across  an 
English  magazine  here  at  Blossom's  which 
gives  us  an  interesting  account  of  some  recent 
excavations.  The  archaeologists  enjoyed  '*a 
feast  of  fat  things"  at  Silchester,  where  they 
not  only  found  beautiful  mosaic  floors  and  other 
interesting  remains  but  a  complete  apparatus 
for  heating  a  house  by  means  of  hot-air  pipes,  a 
luxury  by  no  means  usual  in  the  England  of 
to-day.  We  must  go  to  Silchester  sometime; 
indeed,  we  are  already  planning  another  so- 
journ in  Great  Britain,  this  one  to  include  Ire- 
land and  Scotland  and  to  be  devoted  exclusively 
to  antiquities.  You  and  Allan  will  surely  join 
this  archaeological  expedition,  and  how  we  shall 
all  enjoy  it !  Is  there  any  limit  to  the  interest- 
ing things  to  be  done  under  this  shining  sun  1 — 
or,  rather,  under  this  pouring  English  rain, 
which  finally  drove  us  in  from  the  walls  to  the 
informing  conversation  of  the  dowagers.  Wal- 
ter has  never  had  just  such  a  trip  as  this.  In 
his  hurried  visits  to  England  he  has  been  with 
men  who  had  no  taste  for  the  things  he  has 

166 


ROMAN   ENGLAND 


cared  for,  and  when  he  was  here  with  Christine 
she  was  only  interested  in  the  large  cities  and 
in  the  shops.  I  do  hope  that  the  children  may 
share  their  father's  tastes.  I  am  so  anxious  to 
see  the  darlings,  and  so  glad  that  their  gov- 
erness goes  to  Ireland  to  visit  relatives,  so  that 
we  may  have  them  quite  to  ourselves. 

We  had  a  good  view  of  the  outside  of  the 
Cathedral  from  the  city  walls  this  evening.  I 
have  always  admired  its  great  flying  buttresses 
and  Tudor  porch.  Its  curiously  mixed  archi- 
tecture does  not  seem  incongruous,  and  although 
Chester  Cathedral  may  not  be  compared  with 
the  great  cathedrals  that  we  have  seen,  it  has  its 
own  charm,  especially  as  one  sees  it  from  the 
wall,  its  picturesque  graveyard  all  overgrown 
with  trees  and  shrubbery.  We  are  planning  to 
have  an  hour  for  the  interior  to-morrow,  as 
there  is  an  interesting  old  Norman  doorway, 
and  a  fragment  of  the  Norman  church  restored 
as  a  baptistery,  that  we  want  to  see,  and  some 
beautiful  carvings  on  the  stalls  and  a  famous 
wall-pulpit  that  I  remember  well.  Above  all, 
we  must  see  the  two  flags  that  figured  at  Bun- 
ker Hill ;  they  were  not  taken  from  us  like  the 
cannon.  Miss  Cassandra  should  be  here  to  see 
them.  I  wonder  where  she  and  Lydia  are,  and 
whether  we  shall  meet  them  later  on  in  Oxford. 

157 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

I  have  written  Angela  telling  her  of  our  plans. 
She  will  probably  join  us  in  York. 

St.  Mary's,  Bootham,  York,  August  .2nd. 
We  came  directly  from  Liverpool  to  York, 
a  run  of  only  a  few  hours.  Our  plan  was  to 
stop  over  at  Manchester  for  half  a  day,  as 
Walter  wished  to  have  a  look  at  that  great 
manufacturing  centre,  and  I  have  always 
wanted  to  see  the  Maddox  Brown  frescoes  in 
the  Town  Hall,  but  the  children  were  tired  and 
looked  as  if  they  needed  the  high  bracing  air 
which  we  find  here.  They  are  a  bit  pale,  espe- 
cially Christine,  and  although  they  have  a  good 
nursery  governess  and  have  not  lacked  care 
they  have  a  rather  pathetic  look,  something 
quite  indescribable.  You  will  be  laughing  at 
me  when .  I  say  that  they  have  a  motherless 
look,  both  dressed  alike,  in  orphan-asylum 
fashion,  which  is  something  I  cannot  abide. 
They  adore  their  father  and  must  have  missed 
him  sadly.  Lisa  is  a.  round  chubby  thing  and 
although  ten  years  old  has  been  so  much  petted 
that  she  still  has  some  charming  baby  ways. 
Christine  is  two  years  older,  graver  and  more 
reserved,  but  very  sweet  and  so  pretty  with 
her  gray  eyes  and  waving  brown  hair.  They 
are  both  rather   shy  with  me  and  painfully 

158 


Doorway   of  Tudor    Manor   House,    York 


ROMAN   ENGLAND 


polite.  Lisa  will,  I  am  sure,  soon  adopt  me; 
Christine  will  not  yield  so  quickly,  but  her 
father  assures  me  that  when  won  her  friend- 
ship will  be  worth  having.  And  is  not  this  a 
pleasant  way  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  my 
new  Kinder? 

We  are  comfortably  situated  in  a  pleasant 
house  kept  by  two  English  ladies  quite  near 
the  Bootham  Bar.  Monk  Bar  has  higher 
towers  and  Micklegate  is  more  perfect  archi- 
tecturally, but  old  Bootham  always  delights  us 
with  its  Norman  arch  and  ancient  portcullis — 
but  alas !  like  so  many  interesting  buildings,  it 
is  disfigured  with  unsightly  advertisements. 
Americans  are  not  the  only  people  to  offend 
in  this  respect,  but  I  regret  to  say  that  some 
of  the  wares  advertised  are  of  American 
manufacture. 

You  may  remember  that  there  is  a  fine  view  of 
York  Minster  from  the  walls  near  Bootham 
Bar,  and  nearly  opposite  is  the  beautiful  old 
Tudor  Manor  House,  that  you  and  I  thought 
one  of  the  most  charming  buildings  in  this  city 
of  York  which  so  abounds  in  treasures  of  archi- 
tecture. The  Manor  House  is  now  used  as  an 
institution  for  the  blind.  We  went  through 
it  this  afternoon  and  bought  some  of  the  ar- 
ticles made  by  the  inmates,  and  Walter  is  now 

159 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

congratulating  himself  upon  having  secured  a 
clothes-brush  which  he  reluctantly  admits  is 
of  a  quality  and  excellence  beyond  anything 
the  United  States  can  produce.  They  do  make 
some  things  better  over  here,  and  yet  when  we 
went  to  the  chemist's  to  get  a  tonic  for  Chris- 
tine, the  array  of  home  products  that  the  sales- 
man set  before  us  was  really  amusing;  malted 
milk,  liquid  peptonoids,  acid  phosphates,  etc., 
etc.,  until  we  were  ready  to  lift  up  our  hands 
and  cry  "Enough!'*  When  we  asked  whether 
they  did  not  make  any  of  these  preparations 
in  England,  the  man  said,  quite  frankly,  that 
they  put  them  up  so  well  in  the  States  that  it 
was  not  worth  while.  It  really  seems  that  the 
boasted  strength  of  Great  Britain  is  somewhat 
dependent  upon  the  resources  of  our  Greater 
Britain  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  Does 
that  have  a  ''spread  eagle"  sound  to  you,  Mar- 
garet, who  are  living  among  associations  that 
so  far  antedate  America,  Columbus,  and  even 
Julius  Caesar?  If  it  does,  blame  it  upon  Wal- 
ter's inveterate  Americanism;  and  then,  even 
here,  we  are  by  no  means  living  entirely  in  the 
present.  So  much  of  the  ancient  York  has  been 
excavated  within  a  few  years,  that  we  are  re- 
minded of  Eoman  England  at  every  turn. 
We  are  not  planning  to  take  the  Kinder  upon 

160 


ROMAN   ENGLAND 


any  extended  tours  of  sightseeing,  which  would 
be  wearisomeness  to  both  flesh  and  spirit,  but 
after  walking  around  the  walls  this  morning 
and  viewing  the  Minster  from  without,  we 
brought  them  around  by  the  beautiful  west  front 
and  entered  the  nave  by  the  south  door.  Chris- 
tine was  awed  into  silence  by  the  vastness  and 
lofty  upreach  of  the  glorious  interior,  and  held 
fast  to  her  father's  hand,  while  Lisa  wanted  to 
know  all  about  it.  You  see  how  different  they 
are,  but  no  intelligent  child  can  fail  to  carry 
away  some  lasting  impression  of  the  indescrib- 
able combination  of  strength  and  grace  that 
make  this  Lady  of  the  North  one  of  the  glories 
of  England.  York  was  my  second  cathedral, 
Durham  was  the  first,  and  with  all  my  admira- 
tion for  that  vast  pile  of  dark  stone,  which 
seems  a  part  of  the  rocky  bank  of  the  Wear  on 
which  it  stands,  York  Minster  has  always  been 
the  Cathedral  of  my  dreams.  To  see  it  again 
and  with  Walter  is  an  unspeakable  joy.  Few 
visitors  were  in  the  Cathedral  this  morning 
and  we  enjoyed  undisturbed  the  vast  nave  with 
its  clustered  pillars,  upon  which  the  light 
streamed,  red,  gold,  and  pale  green  through  the 
many  windows  of  old  glass.  You  remember 
the  organ  screen,  with  its  representations  of 
the  English  Kings  from  William  I  to  Henry 

11  161 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

VI,  and  above  them  the  dear  httle  angels  play- 
ing upon  musical  instruments.  This  screen 
delighted  the  children  even  more  than  the 
**Five  Sisters"  in  the  north  transept,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  windows,  with  its 
five  lancet  lights  and  delicate  tracery  in  soft 
greens  and  browns.  The  Jesse  window  in  the 
clere-story  in  the  north  aisle  is  rich  and  lovely, 
with  the  stem  of  Jesse  winding  like  a  vine 
through  the  more  formal  design,  and  the  whole 
representing  the  genealogy  of  our  Lord.  The 
verger  told  us  that  the  east  window  is  the  sec- 
ond largest  in  the  world  and  was  saved,  almost 
miraculously,  when  the  Cathedral  was  set  fire 
to  in  1829.  No  one  but  a  fanatic,  or  a  mad  man, 
could  have  been  guilty  of  such  an  act  of  van- 
dalism and  such  the  incendiary,  Jonathan  Mar- 
tin, proved  to  be  at  his  trial,  as  he  confessed 
quite  ingenuously:  *'I  wur  vexed  at  hearing 
them  sing,  the  organ  made  such  a  buzzing 
noise,  I  thought  thou  shalt  buzz  no  more — I  '11 
have  thee  down  to-night  after  service. ' '  Which 
he  did  forthwith,  setting  fire  to  the  choir  and 
destroying  the  beautiful  screen,  roof,  and 
stalls,  of  which  all  of  those  now  standing  are 
reproductions. 

We  stopped  to  look  at  some  of  the  old  tat- 
tered flags  and  pennons,  borne  in  many  battles 

162 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


from  the  days  when  York  and  Lancaster  strove 
for  England's  crown  until  the  war  in  South 
Africa,  which  seems  so  near.  There  is  some- 
thing infinitely  pathetic  about  the  hanging  of 
these  old  battle-flags  in  the  cathedrals,  and 
something  of  the  dramatic  that  seems  to  belong 
to  the  French  more  than  to  the  English.  I  like 
it,  much  as  I  abhor  war,  because  it  elevates  the 
only  thing  that  excuses  war,  patriotism,  to 
its  rightful  place  in  the  temple  of  religion.  The 
triumphs  of  peace  are  celebrated,  too,  in  stone 
and  marble,  here  as  in  many  another  cathedral. 

The  Lady  chapel  with  its  noble  monument  to 
Archbishop  Sharpe  and  the  beautiful  eight- 
sided  Chapter  house  which  is,  I  believe,  the 
handsomest  in  England,  we  hope  to  see  many 
times,  as  we  are  near  enough  to  the  Minster  to 
stop  in  as  we  go  to  and  fro. 

Some  associations  with  Haworth,  we  came 
upon  quite  unexpectedly.  "When  there  we  had 
seen  the  school  where  many  Yorkshire  chorist- 
ers are  trained.  It  appears  that  when  the 
last  great  musical  festival  was  held  at  York,  in 
1835,  a  grand  occasion,  the  Princess  Victoria 
and  her  mother,  the  Duchess  of  Kent,  being 
present,  the  Yorkshire  choristers  were  placed 
behind  those  from  London.  This  did  not  at  all 
suit  the  ideas  of  the  Yorkshire  leader,  Mr.  Tom 

163 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Parker  of  Haworth,  and  on  the  first  day,  after 
the  London  chorus  had  displayed  its  powers, 
Mr.  Parker  turned  to  his  comrades,  and  said: 
'*Nah,  lads,  let  's  oppen  wer  shoolders!"  The 
Yorkshire  chorus  burst  forth  and  created  such 
an  impression  that  they  were  afterwards  put 
in  front.  ''That  's  nowt  to  what  we  can  do," 
said  Parker  to  the  astonished  Londoners. 

August  3rd. 

Although  York  is  a  large  city  and  a  great 
thoroughfare  between  the  north  and  south, 
boasting  a  railroad  station  which  its  citizens 
rank  almost  next  in  importance  to  the  Minster, 
it  is  still  strangely  dominated  by  the  past,  and 
the  impression  that  York  makes  upon  the  trav- 
eller to-day  is  that  of  an  ancient  fortress. 

Whether  fortified  by  the  Romans,  or  by  the 
Britons  themselves,  it  was  always  against  the 
encroachments  of  the  Northmen,  Picts,  Scots, 
and  Danes  that  this  city  upon  the  Ouse  was  to 
be  defended.  With  its  own  strong  walls, 
Hadrian's  great  wall,  and  as  an  additional 
protection  a  second  wall  and  a  long  line  of 
forts,  it  seemed  that  the  Roman  in  York  might 
take  his  ease  and  follow  the  instincts  of  his 
beauty-loving  nature,  which  he  did  in  making 
of  this  military  centre  an  ** Altera  Roma,"  as 

164 


ROMAN   ENGLAND 


he  sometimes  called  it.  Only  bits  of  tlie  fine 
old  buildings,  here  and  there,  are  still  to  be 
seen,  carved  capitals,  fragments  of  decoration; 
and  in  the  garden  of  the  Philosophical  Society, 
by  the  shining  river  upon  which  the  swans  float 
majestically,  there  is  a  many-angled  tower 
which  formed  a  corner  of  the  old  Roman  wall. 
Beautiful  buildings  were  erected  here  and 
luxuries,  known  only  to  the  life  of  the  south, 
were  brought  to  uncivilized  Britain.  At  Aid- 
borough,  fifteen  miles  or  so  from  York,  the 
Romans  dotted  the  plains  with  their  villas.  A 
young  Scotchman,  Dr.  Mclvor,  who  sits  near 
us  at  table,  tells  us  that  the  museum  of  Roman 
antiquities  at  Aldborough  is  well  worth  a  visit. 
Walter  suggests  a  motor  trip  there  and  we  are 
looking  forward  to  it  with  great  pleasure. 
This  was  the  Isurium  of  the  Romans,  as  you 
two  Italy  lovers  may  be  glad  to  know. 

I  have  never  before  entered  into  the  heart 
of  this  Roman  England,  probably  because  the 
intimate  personal  side  of  the  Roman  occupa- 
tion has  never  been  dwelt  upon  in  our  histories. 
As  Mr.  Norway  says  in  his  interesting  book 
upon  Yorkshire,  which  we  have  been  reading, 
"To  many  of  us  in  these  days  the  Roman  oc- 
cupation of  these  islands  is  a  sort  of  fairy  tale, 
the  story  of  some  temporary  raid,  some  huge 

165 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

adventurous  army  which  came  and  went,  leav- 
ing about  as  much  memory  of  its  presence  as 
the  shadow  of  a  summer  cloud  upon  the  earth. 
It  is  strange  that  we  English,  of  all  people, 
should  think  lightly  of  an  occupation  which 
was  so  like  our  own  great  task  in  India.  .  .  . 
Do  we  ever  think  that  this  strange  Eoman 
occupation  of  our  land  lasted  longer  than 
our  own  stay  in  India  has  been  as  yet? 
The  sixth  Koman  legion,  that  one  which,  with 
a  regimental  pride  worthy  of  our  sympathy, 
wrote  itself  on  every  one  of  its  inscriptions 
'Leg.  vi.  Victrix,'  was  in  garrison  at  York  for 
full  three  hundred  years.  Think  of  it ;  as  long 
a  period  as  from  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
unto  our  own!"  And  do  you  realize,  Mar- 
garet, that  the  Eomans  were  in  Britain  as  long, 
or  longer,  than  the  Briton  has  been  in  Amer- 
ica? I  had  not,  nor  did  I  remember  that  the 
Emperor  Septimius  Severus  had  died  and  been 
buried  here,  or  that  Constantino  the  Great  was 
proclaimed  Emperor  in  York.  Walter  declares 
that  these  facts  make  him  feel  at  home  in  York, 
as  Severus  and  Constantino  are  so  intimately 
associated  with  his  school  days  and  are  so 
much  better  company  than  our  uncivilized 
British  ancestors.  And  yet,  after  hearing 
about  the  recent  pageant  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds 

166 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


from  some  people  in  the  house,  we  feel  that  we 
have  been  brought  into  closer  relations  with 
the  ancient  Britons,  especially  with  Queen 
Boadicea.  This  royal  and  heroic  lady,  they 
describe  as  large  and  blonde,  a  superb-looking 
creature,  a  very  queen  of  tragedy.  Of  the 
pageant  as  a  whole  our  informants  did  not  give 
us  a  very  clear  idea,  for  after  all  a  spectacular 
performance  is  something  to  be  seen  rather 
than  to  be  described. 

If  we  had  not  been  so  much  occupied  in  get- 
ting our  trousseaux  and  being  married,  we 
might  have  seen  one  of  the  pageants  at  Rom- 
sey  or  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds  or  at  Oxford, 
where  the  scenes  seem  to  have  been  particu- 
larly well  arranged.  Of  course,  a  wedding  is 
a  somewhat  serious  affair  and  requires  con- 
sideration ;  but  we  surely  could  have  spent  less 
time  upon  our  trousseaux  in  Paris.  Indeed,  I 
find  my  smart  gowns  so  much  in  the  way,  in 
travelling,  that  I  have  packed  them  in  a  trunk 
by  themselves  and  sent  them  off  to  the  steamer. 

Dr.  Mclvor  went  with  us  to  the  garden  of 
the  Yorkshire  Philosophical  Society  this  after- 
noon. Here  are  the  ruins  of  St.  Leonard's 
Hospital  and  of  St.  Mary's  Abbey,  that  lovely 
ruin  with  its  beautiful  pointed  arches  and  rich 
early    English    decoration.      We    walked    all 

167 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

around  and  about  St.  Mary's,  as  it  covers  quite 
a  large  area,  and  Dr.  Mclvor,  who  is  no  Papist, 
but  a  blue  Scotch  Presbyterian,  says  that  we 
can  form  no  idea  of  the  amount  of  good  that 
was  done  among  the  sick  and  poor  by  these 
religious  houses,  in  days  when  the  only  hos- 
pitals were  those  connected  with  monasteries 
and  convents.  He  has  been  looking  over  the 
records  of  the  Hospital  and  Abbey  and  was 
much  impressed  by  the  vast  amount  of  prac- 
tical benevolence  exercised  by  the  good 
brothers. 

In  the  Hospitium,  which  was  the  guest  hall 
of  the  Abbey,  there  are  most  interesting  relics 
of  the  Eoman  life  in  York,  intimate  personal 
effects  like  those  at  Pompeii,  ornaments,  rings, 
bracelets,  armlets  worn  by  the  children;  and, 
as  if  to  bring  that  old  life  very  close  to  that  of 
our  own  day,  a  coil  of  hair  worn  by  a  Roman 
lady,  fastened  by  jet  pins.  This  coil  of  hair 
was  found  in  a  leaden  coffin  which  was  enclosed 
within  one  of  stone.  Trinkets  worn  by  proud 
Roman  ladies  were  found  in  many  of  these 
stone  coffins,  placed  there  by  the  hands  of  those 
who  loved  them,  and  here  are  children's  toys, 
whistles,  and  shells,  which  they  gathered  at  the 
seashore  just  as  children  do  to-day,  and  bits 
of   glass    and    earthenware   with   which   they 

168 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


played  their  games,  hop-scotch,  or  whatever 
was  the  Eoman  equivalent  for  that  sport. 

Downstairs  in  a  lower  room,  are  the  inscrip- 
tions which  the  officers  and  soldiers  of  the 
legion  had  carved  upon  the  tombs  of  their 
wives  and  children;  for  example, 

*'To  the  Gods,  to  Manes,  to  a  most  innocent 
child,  who  lived  but  ten  months,  her  father 
of  the  Sixth  Legion  Victorius  inscribes  this." 
These   old  inscriptions   and  despoiled  tombs, 

"  Obsolete  lamps,  whose  light  no  time  recalls, 
Urns  without  ashes,  tearless  lacrymals !  " 

seemed  to  throw  a  bridge  across  the  ages  and 
bring  near  to  our  sympathies  those  Eoman 
fathers  to  whom  wife  and  children  were  as 
dear  as  with  us  to-day,  made  dearer  perhaps 
because  of  their  exile  from  their  own  sunny 
land  to  this  north  country  where  the  winds  are 
cruel  and  the  winters  cold  and  long.  No  won- 
der that  the  luxurious  Romans  set  about  mak- 
ing their  homes  more  comfortable,  by  heating 
them  with  hot-air  pipes,  in  this  curious  climate 
where  even  when  summer  prevails  out  of  doors 
winter  still  lingers  inside  of  the  houses !  Other 
people  besides  the  Italians  need  to  go  out  of 
doors  to  get  warm,  and  what  must  these  houses 
be  like  in  winter? 

169 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Dr.  Mclvor  says  that  the  English  keep  them- 
selves warm  with  an  '' interlining  of  good  beef 
and  frequent  libations  of  beer."  How  the 
Scotch  keep  warm  he  did  not  say,  but  Walter 
thinks  that  he  knows,  remembering  the  story 
that  was  told  about  Prince  Louis  of  Batten- 
berg,  who  had  to  drink  Scotch  whisky  to  keep 
his  knees  warm  when  he  wore  the  Highland 
costume. 

We  should  not  have  seen  so  many  of  the 
treasures  of  this  museum  in  one  afternoon  had 
not  our  young  Scotchman  known  just  where 
to  take  us,  and  what  would  most  interest  us. 
He  afterward  showed  us  a  bit  of  an  ancient 
street,  like  the  Appian  Way  at  Rome,  or  the 
street  of  tombs  at  Pompeii,  from  which  many 
stone  coffins  have  been  excavated.  Only  per- 
sons of  rank  and  wealth  were  buried  in  these 
stone  coffins,  of  which  we  have  seen  such  a 
number;  the  poorer  classes  and  slaves  were 
disposed  of  with  much  less  ceremony.  Of  mo- 
saic pavements,  statues,  vases,  and  more  usual 
relics,  there  is  a  vast  collection. 

The  air  here  is  fine  and  bracing,  we  have 
had  several  beautifully  clear  days,  and  on  the 
whole  I  feel  disposed  to  recommend  York  as 
a  good  summer  resort.  We  are  well  and  happy, 
Lisa  growing  fat  and  rosier  every  day,  all 

170 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


except  Christine,  who  is  not  well  and  has  de- 
veloped a  troublesome  sore  throat  which  makes 
us  feel  quite  anxious  about  her.  If  she  is  not 
decidedly  better  to-morrow  I  shall  send  for  a 
doctor,  as  our  landlady  tells  us  there  is  an 
excellent  '' medical  man"  quite  near.  Dr. 
Mclvor,  who  for  some  reason  is  called  "Mr. 
Mclvor,"  looks  so  young  that  we  feel  it  is 
wiser  to  have  an  M.D.  of  more  experience. 
We  always  call  him  Doctor,  because  '^  there  is 
no  use  getting  into  their  queer  ways,  over 
here,"  as  my  ardent  American  expresses  it, 
' '  and  if  we  begin  there  is  no  knowing  where  we 
shall  end."  I  do  not  myself  anticipate  any 
very  serious  ending  even  if  we  should  happen 
to  fall  in  with  English  ways,  and  am  disposed 
when  in  Rome  to  do  as  the  Romans  do. 

Angela  writes 

August  6tli. 

It  is  Angela  herself  who  is  writing  to  you 
and  from  old  England,  dearest  Margaret, 
strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you  when  you 
thought  you  had  shipped  her  off  to  Austria 
for  the  rest  of  the  summer.  Z.  dropped  her 
pen  in  the  middle  of  her  letter  and  asks  me  to 
finish  it.  Why,  I  will  tell  you  later,  but  you 
know  that  the  only  way  that  I  can  write  is  to 

171 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

begin  at  the  beginning,  like  the  story  books. 
In  the  first  place  I  left  Carlsbad  a  day  earlier 
than  I  expected  because  the  Browns  were  com- 
ing over  to  London  and  kindly  offered  to  bring 
me  with  them.  In  this  way  I  missed  a  letter 
from  Z.  and  only  realized,  when  I  was  nearing 
York,  that  I  had  not  the  most  remote  idea 
where  she  and  Walter  were  stopping.  I  put 
my  poor  wits  to  work  and  decided  to  go  to  the 
post-office  and  get  the  Leonards*  address  there. 
You  may  remember,  or  you  may  not,  that  it  is 
sometimes  difficult  to  get  an  address  at  the 
post-office.  I  had  forgotten  the  fact  and  was 
surprised  when  the  man  flatly  refused  to  give 
it  to  me.  I  used  my  softest  persuasions  all 
to  no  purpose,  and  was  on  the  point  of  turning 
away,  feeling  quite  non-plussed,  when  suddenly 
a  tall,  sandy-haired  young  man,  who  was  writ- 
ing at  one  of  the  desks,  crossed  the  room,  and 
with  an  apology  for  intruding,  asked  me  if  I 
were  not  the  young  lady  whom  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Leonard  were  expecting  the  next  day.  After 
that,  the  man  at  the  boxes  would  have  given 
me  anything  I  wanted  and  smiled  and  beamed 
upon  me  as  I  walked  off  with  the  lanky  youth. 
He  offered  to  take  me  to  the  house  where  the 
Leonards  were  stopping,  which,  he  said,  was 
not  far,  only  a  five  minutes'  walk  if  I  did  not 

172 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


mind  that.  No,  I  did  not  mind  anything  so 
long  as  I  was  on  my  way  to  Z.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  me,  until  we  had  gone  some  little 
distance,  how  perfectly  ridiculous  it  was  for 
me  to  be  starting  off  with  this  stranger  because 
he  claimed  to  know  the  Leonards,  but  there 
was  something  in  his  face  and  bearing  that  in- 
spired confidence,  and  mine  was  not  misplaced 
this  time,  as  Z.  greeted  my  escort  as  a  friend, 
and  thanked  him  warmly  for  bringing  me  to 
her,  without  even  stopping  to  ask  when,  or  how, 
we  had  met.  As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  I  asked 
Z.  what  in  the  world  was  the  matter,  she  looked 
so  pale,  really  ill,  all  her  bright  color  gone  and 
her  eyes  as  heavy  as  if  she  had  not  slept  for 
a  week.  ''Has  Walter  been  treating  you  very 
badly,  Z.  dear?"  I  asked. 

''Walter?  oh,  Angela!  how  can  you?  Wal- 
ter is  a  saint,"  and  with  this  Z.  dropped  her 
head  upon  my  shoulder  and  wept. 

"Well  now,  don't  cry  about  it,"  I  said  in 
my  most  soothing  tone.  "I  know  that  I  should 
weep  if  I  were  married  to  a  saint,  but  you  and 
I  have  rather  different  ideas  upon  that  sub- 
ject." Then  Z.  told  me  that  Christine  had  been 
seriously  ill  and  was  still  very  weak,  and  that 
when  they  were  most  anxious  about  her  their 
doctor  had  been  obliged  to  go  to  London  to 

173 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

attend  a  medical  congress  and  had  left  Dr. 
Mclvor,  my  post-office  acquaintance,  in  charge 
of  the  case.  Walter  came  in,  in  the  midst  of 
our  confab,  and  assured  me  that  Christine  was 
much  better,  mending  rapidly,  and  that  Dr. 
Mclvor  was  taking  good  care  of  her,  and  that 
he,  for  his  part,  preferred  him  to  the  older 
"medical  man." 

Walter  evidently  feels  that  Z.  is  unneces- 
sarily anxious  about  Christine;  but  it  is  tragic 
to  have  anyone  ill  in  a  strange  land,  and  the 
M.D.  does  look  young.  Small  wonder  that  he 
knew  his  way  to  the  house  so  well,  as  he  pays 
two  or  three  visits  a  day!  He  has  just  set  up 
for  himself  around  the  corner  and  is  glad 
enough  to  get  a  patient,  I  fancy.  I  give  you 
the  situation  and  will  add  a  line  in  a  day  or 
two  to  tell  you  how  we  are  progressing. 

August  8th. 
Christine  has  improved  so  rapidly  in  two 
days,  as  children  are  wont  to  do,  that  Z.  has 
actually  left  her  in  my  care  and  gone  off  with 
Walter  for  a  day  at  Durham.  She  found  out, 
when  she  was  in  London,  that  Mrs.  Browning 
was  bom  somewhere  near  Durham,  and  noth- 
ing will  satisfy  her  but  to  see  the  place.  I 
don't  think  she  will  ever  find  the  house,  and 

174 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


Walter  realizes  that  it  is  a  wild-goose  chase; 
but  he  would  cheerfully  set  out  on  a  trip  to 
the  moon  with  Z.,  if  the  new  balloons  were  in 
order  for  such  an  expedition,  just  for  the  sake 
of  getting  her  away  from  Christine  and  into 
the  open  for  a  day.  They  have  taken  Lisa  with 
them,  as  she  is  a  good  little  traveller,  and  I 
am  elevated  to  the  dignity  of  head  nurse.  We 
really  have  an  excellent  trained  nurse  from 
the  hospital ;  but  I  am  in  charge  and  she  treats 
me  with  great  respect.  Dr.  Mclvor  said  yes- 
terday that  Christine  was  well  enough  to  sit 
up  for  an  hour;  but  Z.  demurred,  said  the  doc- 
tor was  young  and  daring,  etc.  She  is  more 
timid  about  taking  risks  than  Walter ;  but  then 
she  is  so  conscientious  that  she  would  always 
be  more  careful  about  other  people's  property 
than  with  her  own.  Do  you  remember  the  story 
of  the  colored  woman  who  set  fire  to  her  shanty 
and  burned  her  children  upf  When  some  per- 
son objected  to  such  a  proceeding  a  neighbor, 
another  ** colored  lady,"  said,  "Well,  they  were 
her  own  chillen,  and  she  had  a  right  to  burn 
them  up."  Walter  is  not  disposed  to  carry 
things  to  any  such  extreme;  but  I  saw  plainly 
that  he  was  anxious  to  have  Christine  try 
her  wings  a  bit,  so  when  Dr.  Mclvor  came  to 
pay   his   morning  visit,  I  said  very   gravely, 

175 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

"Christine  is  weak,  of  course,  and  not  able  to 
sit  up  to-day,  I  suppose."  If  I  had  put  it  the 
other  way  and  asked  a  leading  question  he  would 
have  said  no,  at  once,  being  a  Scotchman;  but 
to  the  question  put  this  way,  he  answered  de- 
cidedly, ''Miss  Christine  is  able  to  sit  up.  She 
will  be  the  better  for  it."  So  having  medical 
authority  I  went  a  step  further,  all  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  nurse,  of  course,  and  remarked  that 
the  balcony  was  warm  and  sunny  in  the  after- 
noon. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  M.D.  *'Let  Miss 
Christine  have  an  hour  on  the  balcony  this 
afternoon;  shall  I  come  to  help  you?"  **0h! 
not  at  all,"  I  replied,  "the  nurse  and  I  can 
manage  beautifully." 

Now  was  not  that  generalship?  You  see  I 
put  all  the  responsibility  on  the  "medical 
man."  I  am  so  glad  that  Christine's  malady 
is  not  of  a  catching  kind;  indeed  one  does  not 
hear  quite  so  much  about  germs  over  here  as 
with  us.  Perhaps  because  these  old  buildings 
are  so  saturated  with  germs,  they  think  that  a 
few  more  or  less  will  make  no  difference. 
However  that  may  be,  I  am  allowed  to  be  with 
Christine  as  long  as  I  choose,  and  she  had  a 
gala  day,  playing  jack  straws  and  old  maid 
all  morning.     A  game  of  old  maid  between 

176 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


three  spinsters,  the  nurse,  who  is  young  and 
what  Walter  calls  ''a  good  looker,"  making  a 
third,  is  really  exciting,  even  when  one  of  them 
is  under  age.  But  this  was  nothing  to  the 
excitement  of  the  afternoon  when,  after  Chris- 
tine had  had  her  luncheon  and  a  nap,  we  decked 
her  off  in  my  pink  tea-gown,  which  gave  some 
color  to  her  pale  cheeks,  and  put  her  in  a  big 
arm-chair, — they  have  nothing  as  civilized  as 
a  rocking-chair  here, — and  carried  her  out  on 
the  balcony  for  afternoon  tea.  Miss  H.,  who 
was  in  the  plot,  sent  us  up  an  extra  good  tea, 
buttered  scones  and  a  delectable  cake  that  they 
have  here,  like  sweet  pastry  and  so  hard  that 
you  have  to  break  it  with  a  hatchet;  but  de- 
licious when  you  get  into  it.  We  were  just  try- 
ing to  break  the  tea  cake  with  the  poker,  having 
no  hatchet  at  hand,  when  Dr.  Mclvor  suddenly 
appeared,  and  seeing  our  dilemma  showed  us 
how  a  quick  blow  with  the  dull  side  of  a  table 
knife  would  reduce  the  cake  to  terms  or,  better 
still,  to  slivers. 

I  think  that  he  was  just  a  bit  uneasy  about 
his  patient,  but  when  he  saw  Christine's  beam- 
ing face  he  was  reassured  and  entered  in  the 
spirit  of  the  celebration,  drinking  about  as 
many  cups  of  tea  as  old  Dr.  Johnson  and  tell- 
ing stories  which  were  much  funnier  than  he 

12  177 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

knew  because  of  his  Scotch  brogue.  It  was 
quite  a  surprise  to  me,  as  he  is  usually  so  grave 
and  dignified  although  by  no  means  a  dour 
Scotchman;  but  this  afternoon  he  behaved  like 
a  boy  out  of  school,  and  ended  by  giving  us  a 
Scotch  toast. 

"  Here's  tae  us. 
Wha's  like  us?    Nana  ava! 
Wha's  as  guid  ?     Dooms  few !  " 

Then,  seeing  that  Christine  looked  a  bit  tired, 
he  became  suddenly  quite  serious  and  picking 
her  up  in  his  arms  carried  her  off  to  her  bed, 
where  she  slept  for  an  hour  and  looked  so 
bright  when  Z.  and  "Walter  returned  that  I 
had  courage  to  confess  my  sins.  As  this  is  a 
case  of  **A11  's  well  that  ends  well,"  and  the 
child  has  been  improving  ever  since  I  took  her 
out  on  the  balcony  for  fresh  air,  the  parents 
vote  me  a  superior  nurse  and  Dr.  Mclvor  would 
give  me  a  diploma  I  am  quite  sure.  Z.  confided 
to  me  to-day  that  it  was  worth  all  the  trouble 
and  anxiety  of  Christine's  illness  to  have  the 
child  become  so  fond  of  her.  As  if  any  one 
could  help  being  fond  of  Z. !  She  is  the  same 
dear  old  romantic  thing,  only  more  so  if 
that  is  possible.  I  really  think  that  Wal- 
ter   appreciates    what    a    treasure    he    has 

178 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


secured.  Walter  and  Z.  are  a  perfect  Darby  and 
Joan;  but  you  and  Allan  are  probably  quite 
as  bad,  so  there  is  no  use  complaining  of  them 
to  you.  This  falling  in  love  is  a  queer  thing. 
We  three  boon  companions  have  been  scattered 
to  remote  parts  of  the  globe  by  the  tender  pas- 
sion. I  have  only  got  back  to  Z.  by  the  skin 
of  my  teeth,  and  you  are  still  far  away  from  me. 
**The  only  thing  for  you  to  do,  Angela " 

Yes,  I  can  hear  you  say  it,  dear;  but  I 
don't  intend  to.  My  heart  is  to  be  fancy  free 
and  my  role  to  play  the  part  of  maiden  aunt  to 
you  and  Z.,  coming  to  look  after  you  both  in  all 
emergencies  like  the  present,  and  so  to  be  a 
blessing  to  the  rising  generation. 

The  M.D.  has  been  more  sedate  than  ever 
since  our  hilarious  afternoon.  He  probably 
thinks  he  compromised  his  dignity  by  being 
perfectly  natural  and  is  now  making  amends 
for  it  by  being  quite  formal.  He  wishes  to 
conduct  me  through  the  museum  of  Eoman 
antiquities.  You  know  that  antiquities  are  not 
exactly  in  my  line;  but  I  shall  have  to  accept 
the  invitation  or  Walter  will  think  I  am  neg- 
lecting all  my  opportunities  for  higher  educa- 
tion and  all  that.  Of  course,  he  is  going  with 
us,  as  he  is  really  quite  mad  about  these  old 
things,  even  worse  than  Z. 

179 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

August  10th. 

Driving  and  motoring  are  the  order  of  the 
day,  as  Christine  is  able  to  be  about  and  the 
fine  dry  air  is  good  for  her.  The  views  of  the 
walls  and  Cathedral  from  the  various  drives 
are  so  interesting;  and  just  where  the  Ouse 
and  the  Foss  join  forces  and  make  a  great 
river  there  is  a  charming  little  bridge,  the  Blue 
Bridge,  on  which  the  names  of  the  officers  and 
soldiers  of  this  district  who  fell  in  the  Crimean 
War  are  inscribed.  Is  not  that  a  sweet 
memorial?  So  much  better  than  a  great  statue 
in  a  park !  It  is  all  so  picturesque, — the  bridge 
overgrown  with  trees  and  vines,  and  a  fine 
promenade  near  by,  which  extends  all  the  way 
to  Fulford  landing. 

There  has  been  no  rain  for  two  days  and  the 
sun  is  so  warm  that  the  *' inclement  weather 
in  doors"  has  given  place  to  something  like 
summer.  "We  drove  to  Bishopthorp  this  after- 
noon, the  palace  of  the  Archbishop  of  York, 
who  is  the  Primate  of  England  as  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  is  Primate  of  all  England. 
To  the  American  mind  this  may  seem  a  distinc- 
tion without  a  difference  but  it  means  a  great 
deal  over  here.  Z.  has  found  a  curious  little 
tale  about  the  controversy  between  the  Sees 
of  York  and  Canterbury,  which  she  begs  me 

180 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


to  copy  for  you:  ''Many  and  bitter  contro- 
versies raged  around  the  question.  In  1176, 
at  the  Council  of  Westminster,  Eichard  of  Can- 
terbury arriving  first  seated  himself  in  the 
place  of  honor  on  the  right  hand  of  the  Papal 
legate  Huguccio.  Eoger  de  Pont  I'Eveque, 
Archbishop  of  York,  entering  later  seated  him- 
self in  Canterbury's  lap!  He  was  violently  re- 
moved and  ejected  with  cries  of  'Away!  away! 
betrayer  of  St.  Thomas!  His  blood  is  still 
upon  thy  hands.'  " 

Very  indecorous  of  these  reverend  gentle- 
men to  be  sitting  in  each  other's  laps,  was  it 
not?  Especially  so  as  the  "Most  Eeverend 
and  Eight  Honorable"  of  York  seems  to  have 
been  of  French  extraction  and  should  have  had 
better  manners.  It  appears  that  Eoger  of 
York  was  suspected,  and  not  without  founda- 
tion, of  having  instigated  the  murder  of 
Thomas  a  Becket.  Z.  is  my  authority  for  all 
of  this,  which  interests  her  immensely,  as  she 
took  a  full  course  of  Becket  at  Canterbury. 
She  says  that  the  long  dispute  was  finally  set- 
tled by  Pope  Innocent  VI  who  gave  the  Bishops 
of  the  two  Sees  titles  as  nearly  alike  as  the  law 
would  allow. 

"For  a  good  free  fight,  give  me  a  religious 
controversy!"  exclaimed  Walter,  which  made 

181 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

the  Scotchman  laugh  immoderately,  thinking 
all  the  while,  no  doubt,  of  Jenny  Geddes  and 
her  three-legged  projectile. 

Everything  was  peaceful  enough  at  Bishop- 
thorp,  this  afternoon,  and  a  beautiful  place  it  is, 
with  a  lawn  sloping  down  to  the  river  and  fine 
trees  and  flowers.  We  were  shown  the  lower 
rooms  of  the  palace,  as  they  call  it,  and  some 
interesting  portraits,  which  was  so  kind  that 
I  wondered  why  the  family  in  residence  did  not 
extend  its  hospitality  to  the  extent  of  inviting 
us  to  have  tea  with  them  on  the  lawn.  These 
tea  tables  set  out  on  the  green  are  so  alluring, 
and  as  we  were  the  only  visitors  this  afternoon 
it  would  have  been  a  graceful  act  of  interna- 
tional courtesy  that  would  not  have  seriously 
taxed  the  episcopal  larder.  I  am  quite  sure 
that  if  a  party  of  English  people  happened  to 
be  visiting  at  any  mansion  at  home,  public  or 
private,  where  refreshments  were  being  served 
on  the  lawn,  they  would  have  been  cordially 
invited  to  assist.  And  then  our  English  brothers 
and  sisters  have  grown  so  fond  of  us  since  the 
Spanish  war,  and  since  President  Roosevelt 
took  a  hand  in  settling  the  difficulty  between 
Eussia  and  Japan,  that  no  amount  of  civility 
would  surprise  ns.  Even  English  women 
whom  we  meet  seem  to  realize  that  we  have 

182 


ROMAN  ENGLAND 


a  President  who  counts  for  something  in  the 
affairs  of  the  great  world,  and  the  first  ques- 
tion that  the  men  ask  us  is,  ''What  is  your 
President  going  to  do?"  They  refer,  of 
course,  to  that  much-discussed  "third  term," 
as  if  anyone  under  the  shining  sun  could  an- 
swer such  a  question! 

We  are  to  motor  to  Aldborough  to-morrow 
to  see  the  Eoman  museum  there,  but  quite 
aside  from  that  it  will  be  enchanting  to  have  a 
spin  over  these  fine  roads.  Z.  is  anxious  to 
see  Coxwold  where  Sterne  was  vicar  in  his 
last  years  and  where  he  wrote  ''The  Sentimen- 
tal Journey,"  and  Walter  wants  to  see  the 
battle-field  of  Marston  Moor.  It  is  quite  a 
question  whether  the  literary,  warlike,  and 
antiquarian  tastes  can  be  accommodated  in  one 
day  even  with  the  help  of  a  motor,  but  Walter 
will  manage  it  if  it  can  be  done. 

By  the  way,  Z.  did  see  a  place  near  Durham 
where  they  said  Elizabeth  Barrett  was  born, 
and  they  saw  the  register  of  her  birth,  in  1806, 
in  the  parish  church  near  by.  She  is  quite  tri- 
umphant, and  yet  she  has  regrets  because  this 
date  settles  conclusively  the  much-discussed 
question  as  to  whether  Elizabeth  was  three  or 
six  years  older  than  Robert.  Z.  would  prefer 
to  have  only  three  years  between  them,  but  it 

183 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

really  does  not  seem  as  if  this  fact  should 
make  much  difference  to  us  as  it  did  not  seem 
seriously  to  disturb  the  ''contracting  parties," 
as  our  newspapers  would  dub  the  two  poets. 

The  day  after  our  Aldborough  jaunt  we  go 
to  London.  The  M.D.  has  announced  that  he 
intends  to  meet  us  there,  as  he  wishes  to  be  in 
London  for  the  last  days  of  the  British  Medical 
Association.  Miss  H.  tells  us  that  he  is  a  laird 
in  his  own  country,  which  probably  does  not 
mean  much  as  I  have  heard  that  lairds  are 
quite  plentiful  in  Scotland;  but  since  hearing 
this  Z.  is  impressed  by  something  about  the 
carriage  of  his  head  which  she  considers  a 
mark  of  blood.  He  certainly  is  not  handsome ; 
quite  the  contrary;  but  he  is  quite  good  fun, 
and  has  a  fine  sense  of  humor,  although  "a  bit 
slow  about  taking  another  fellow's  jokes,"  as 
Walter  puts  it.  Z.  has  been  so  much  occupied 
with  Christine  that  she  seems  to  have  forgotten 
how  to  write,  but  she  will  doubtless  find  out  how 
to  use  her  pen  when  she  gets  to  London,  and 
in  any  case  you  will  be  sure  to  hear  from 
Your  devoted 

Angela. 


VIII 
SIX  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Cavendish  Square,  August  13th. 

London  is  of  course  much  less  gay  than  when 
we  left  it  in  July.  Hyde  Park,  where  English 
beauty  and  East  Indian  rhododendrons  both 
bloomed  so  luxuriantly  in  the  season,  is  quite 
deserted,  its  much-coveted  penny  chairs  unoc- 
cupied; its  long  line  of  carriages  and  their 
burden  of  gayly-dressed  women,  adorned  with 
boas,  floating  veils,  and  scarfs,  which  they 
carry  off  with  such  infinite  grace  and  charm, 
have  betaken  themselves  to  pastures  new.  The 
pink  geraniums  and  daisies  in  the  window 
boxes  on  Grosvenor  and  Berkeley  Squares,  and 
along  the  upper  part  of  Piccadilly,  have  faded 
and  others  have  not  come  to  take  their  places. 
In  the  shops  we  meet  more  American  than 
English  women,  for  this  is  the  season  when 
the  London  shopkeeper  reaps  a  rich  harvest 
from  the  trans- Atlantic  tourist.  The  fact  that 
**the  dun  year's  brilliant  flower"  has  ceased 
to  bloom  does  not  disturb  us.    London  is  never 

185 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

really  dull.  The  theatres  are  all  open,  the 
grass  in  its  many  parks  is  as  green  as  in  June, 
and  the  procession  of  omnibuses  bearing  their 
populations  on  top,  and  announcing  on  their 
many-colored  sides  that  patent  medicines  and 
pre-digested  foods  are  still  in  favor,  continue 
to  stream,  five  abreast,  along  the  Strand  and 
by  Oxford  and  Eegent  Streets  and  on  and  out 
to  places  with  captivatingly  rural  and  refresh- 
ing names,  as  Hampstead  Heath,  Shepherd's 
Bush,  Forest  Gate,  Kew  Gardens  and  the  like. 
We  long  to  stop  each  one  as  it  passes,  and 
climb  up  the  narrow  steps  to  the  dizzy  heights 
above,  and  stagger  into  a  seat  and  be  borne 
away,  far  above  the  ''madding  crowd,"  to  the 
regions  of  pure  delight  that  lie  all  around  and 
about  the  great  city  of  London.  And  then,  not 
the  least  attractive,  so  many  of  the  old  historic 
buildings  and  galleries  are  open  and  waiting 
to  be  visited  by  the  "Abounding  American,"  as 
one  of  the  English  magazines  is  pleased  to  call 
us.  Indeed  a  great  part  of  London,  down  by 
the  Strand,  and  Ludgate  Hill,  and  by  the  Tem- 
ple and  the  Inns  of  Court,  only  recognizes  the 
advent  of  summer  by  the  spreading  forth  of 
its  greenery  and  never  knows  that  going-away 
time  has  really  come. 
Dr.  Mclvor  met  us  at  the  station,  as  he  came 

186 


SIX   DAYS   IN  LONDON 


a  day  in  advance  of  us  in  order  to  attend  the 
last  sessions  of  the  British  Medical,  and  al- 
though his  chief  business  is  with  the  M.D.'s, 
he  seems  to  have  plenty  of  time  to  devote  to  us. 
The  business  meetings  of  the  Association  are 
really  over  and  the  parties  have  begun.  Last 
night,  through  the  courtesy  of  our  young 
Scotchman,  we  attended  a  reception  at  the  Bo- 
tanical Gardens.  The  grounds  were  en  fete, 
beautifully  illuminated,  the  flowers  gorgeous,  the 
Victoria  Eegia  blooming  absolutely  on  time, 
besides  which  we  had  the  honor  of  being  re- 
ceived by  royalty,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  by  those 
nearly  related  to  royalty.  Do  you  remember 
being  at  a  garden  party  here  some  years  ago 
when  the  Duchess  of  Teck  was  receiving?  She 
was  so  very  stout  but  handsome  and  with  so 
much  graciousness  and  charm  of  manner! 

To-day,  again  through  an  invitation  from 
Dr.  Mclvor,  we  spent  the  morning  at  Windsor. 
It  is  really  an  advantage  to  follow  a  proces- 
sion, on  such  occasions,  as  all  doors  flew  open 
before  us,  and  we  had  the  satisfaction  of  being 
inside  the  Albert  Chapel  and  having  a  nearer 
view  of  all  the  tombs,  memorials  and  medal- 
lions, which  you  and  I  only  saw  through  the 
grating  when  we  were  here.  There  are  some 
beautiful  things  in  the  Chapel  and  it  is  all 

187 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

very  rich,  but  on  the  whole  it  does  not  seem  to 
me  quite  in  good  taste.  The  noble  recumbent 
figures  of  the  Prince  Consort  and  of  his  young- 
est son,  the  Duke  of  Albany,  we  admired  very 
much,  and  the  bronze  figure  of  the  Duke  of 
Clarence  is  impressive,  not  only  for  its  beauty 
but  because  of  all  that  his  early  death  meant 
to  his  family  and  to  England.  Even  more  pa- 
thetic, is  the  cenotaph  erected  by  Queen  Vic- 
toria in  memory  of  the  Prince  Imperial  of 
France,  in  St.  George's  Chapel.  You  must 
remember  this  beautiful  tomb,  with  a  reclining 
figure  of  the  young  Napoleon,  all  of  pure  white 
marble,  with  the  most  touching  inscriptions  on 
the  sides  of  the  base.  On  one  side  are  expres- 
sions of  grateful  affection  for  the  royal  family 
of  England,  copied  from  the  Prince's  will,  and 
oh  the  other  is  a  most  beautiful  prayer,  of  his 
own  composition,  used  by  him  in  his  private 
devotions.  This  young  Prince  seems  to  have 
had  some  fine  and  noble  traits,  and  the  poor 
boy,  who  had  his  first  experience  of  the  horrors 
of  war  at  Sedan,  certainly  deserved  a  better 
fate  than  to  fall  a  victim  to  a  wretched  blunder. 
Such  a  perfectly  useless  sacrifice  of  a  young 
life!  Angela  says  that  it  was  '* tragic";  but 
Dr.  Mclvor,  who  has  a  strong  Scotch  prejudice 
against  the  whole  Bonaparte  family,  says  that 

188 


SIX   DAYS   IN   LONDON 


it  would  have  been  even  more  tragic,  and  that 
the  history  of  France  would  have  been  re- 
written in  many  a  bloody  page,  had  the  Prince 
lived. 

That  may  be ;  but  it  was  an  infinitely  pathetic 
life  and  death,  and  this  cenotaph  was  a  grace- 
ful tribute  from  the  mother  of  many  children 
to  the  brave,  young  son  of  the  lonely  Empress 
at  Chiselhurst  who,  in  a  few  months,  lost  all 
that  made  life  worth  living. 

There  is  much  to  interest  one  in  this  chapel, 
with  all  its  garter  stalls  and  rich  emblematic 
decorations,  but  we  spent  most  of  our  time 
before  Wyatt's  exquisite  monument  to  the 
Princess  Charlotte,  which  looked  more  beau- 
tiful than  ever  to-day  with  the  warm  golden 
light,  streaming  through  the  colored  glass  win- 
dows above  it,  upon  that  perfect  ascending 
figure  of  the  young  mother  with  her  child  in 
her  arms.  It  is  not  only  so  lovely  in  design 
and  execution  but  is  the  most  artistically  ar- 
ranged monument  that  I  have  ever  seen. 
Christine  was  so  much  interested,  when  we  ex- 
plained to  her  that  the  young  Princess  and  her 
baby  had  died  at  the  same  time,  and  that  she 
would  have  been  Queen  of  England  had  she 
lived,  that  we  have  promised  to  take  her  to  the 
National  Gallery  to  see  a  portrait  of  the  Prin- 

189 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

cess  Charlotte,  and  to  Kensington  Palace,  where 
there  are  some  memorials  of  her. 

The  King  has  greatly  improved  the  interior 
of  Windsor  Palace,  since  you  were  here.  Some 
of  the  rooms  have  been  refurnished  and  are 
very  handsome,  especially  the  great  dining- 
halls  with  their  paintings  and  fine  carvings  by 
Grindling  Gibbons.  Those  used  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  royal  guests  were  shown  to  us,  but 
we  did  not  see  the  private  apartments  of  the 
royal  family,  as  they  are  no  longer  shown  to 
the  public.  The  paintings  all  through  the 
palace  are  so  interesting  that  we  began  to 
realize  the  disadvantage  of  being  in  a  proces- 
sion, as  we  were  often  obliged  to  ''move  on" 
when  we  should  have  preferred  to  stand  still 
before  the  Van  Dycks,  Lelys,  Knellers  and 
Gainsboroughs  of  the  many  French,  English 
and  Spanish  royalties.  The  full-length  por- 
trait of  Queen  Henrietta  Maria,  and  of  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots,  are  the  most  beautiful  of  their 
many  portraits,  and  the  lovely  Van  Dyck  of 
the  children  of  Charles  I  is  something  one 
would  like  to  carry  away  bodily. 

Out  upon  the  terrace  which  overlooks  the 
river  we  enjoyed  the  extensive  view  of  Wind- 
sor Park,  the  Eton  School  buildings,  and  of 
Stoke  Manor  and  Park  in  the  distance.     The 

190 


SIX   DAYS   IN   LONDON 


guide  showed  us  the  window  where  Queen 
Anne  was  sitting  when  the  news  of  the  victory 
of  Blenheim  was  brought  to  her.  It  seemed 
very  real  to  us  when  we  thought  of  the  Queen 
looking  out  upon  this  same  beautiful  view  that 
we  were  gazing  upon,  especially  so  as  we  hap- 
pened to  be  here  on  the  two  hundred  and  third 
anniversary  of  this  battle.  The  bearer  of  the 
good  news,  Colonel  Daniel  Parke,  is  intimately 
connected  with  our  own  history.  Perhaps  you 
have  seen  his  portrait  in  Virginia,  as  he  settled 
there  and  became  the  ancestor  of  the  Custis 
family,  who  still  own  the  portrait  of  this  dis- 
tinguished gentleman,  dressed  in  a  grand  suit 
of  crimson  velvet  with  the  Queen's  gift,  her 
miniature  surrounded  by  diamonds,  suspended 
from  his  neck. 

Inside  the  palace  we  saw  the  busts  of  the 
Dukes  of  Marlborough  and  Wellington,  which 
are  always  decorated  with  fresh  banners  by 
their  respective  families  before  twelve  noon 
on  the  anniversaries  of  the  battles  of  Blen- 
heim and  "Waterloo.  The  Blenheim  banners 
did  look  fresh  and  new,  and  the  guide  said  that 
the  title,  or  property,  was  in  some  way  involved 
in  the  proper  performance  of  this  ceremony. 

I  thought  so  often  of  Miss  Burney,  as  we 
walked  along  the  lovely  terrace  with  the  gar- 

191 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

dens  beneath.  She  speaks  so  much  of  this 
terrace  and  of  walking  there  with  the  "good 
Queen"  and  her  children,  especially  with  the 
pretty  little  Princess  Amelia,  and  of  Mrs. 
Delany,  who  was  so  frequently  here  with  the 
royal  family. 

August  14th, 
Angela,  with  her  usual  amiability,  offered 
to  take  the  girls  upon  a  little  shopping  tour, 
this  morning,  and  Walter  and  I,  feeling  quite 
free  from  the  responsibilities  of  life,  have  car- 
ried out  a  long-cherished  plan  of  spending  a 
day  in  the  haunts  of  Dr.  Johnson. 

Before  starting  on  this  eighteenth  century 
pilgrimage,  he  went  with  me  to  the  church  in 
which  Mrs.  Browning  was  married,  stopping 
on  our  way  at  the  house  No.  50  Wimpole  Street, 
where  the  Barretts  lived.  Neither  of  these 
places  is  far  from  the  house  where  we  are 
stopping  on  Cavendish  Square;  indeed  these 
dingy  old  streets  are  set  thick  with  associations 
of  the  good  and  great,  and  of  the  wild  and 
wicked  as  well,  who  are,  as  Walter  remarks, 
''quite  as  interesting  if  not  more  so."  Byron 
was  born  at  24  Holies  Street,  near  by;  George 
Romney,  *'the  man  in  Cavendish  Square,"  as 
Sir  Joshua  was  wont  to  call  him,  lived  and 
painted  for  years  at  No.  32,  and  Barry  Corn- 

192 


SIX  DAYS  IN  LONDON, 


wall  had  a  house  on  Harley  Street  where  he 
welcomed  all  the  literati  of  his  time.  On  Great 
Portland  Street,  around  the  corner  from  our 
hotel,  poor  old  ^'Bozzy"  died,  after  completing 
the  great  work  of  his  life,  and  our  own  Ben- 
jamin West  lived  for  years  on  Newman  Street. 
We  could  make  historic  and  literary  pilgrim- 
ages, within  a  small  radius  of  Cavendish 
Square,  for  a  fortnight  and  still  have  some- 
thing left  to  do. 

We  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  church 
near  Marylebone  Road  which  they  call  the 
New  Marylebone  Church,  although  it  looks  old 
and  dismal,  without  having  any  of  the  beauty 
that  the  years  bring  to  the  really  ancient 
churches.  The  interior  is  cold  enough  in  at- 
mosphere, as  well  as  in  architecture,  to  have 
given  the  poor  bride  a  chill  upon  the  spot,  this 
churchly  gloom  being  added  to  all  the  trying 
circumstances  attending  her  marriage. 

The  place  in  front  of  the  altar  was  shown 
to  us  where  Elizabeth  Barrett  stood  during  the 
ceremony,  "more  dead  than  alive,''  as  she 
expressed  it,  "and  only  supported  by  my  trust 
in  him."  To  this  church  Robert  Browning 
came  whenever  he  was  in  London,  and  never 
failed,  we  were  told,  to  kiss  the  floor  where 
her  feet  had  rested. 

13  193 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

There  was  no  service  this  morning,  and  the 
only  person  in  the  church  was  an  old  char- 
woman who  was  washing  up  the  floor.  She 
stopped  in  the  midst  of  her  work,  and  went  off 
in  search  of  the  clerk,  who  looked  up  the  mar- 
riage record,  under  date  of  September,  1846, 
and  showed  us  the  signature  of  Kobert  Brown- 
ing and  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Moulton  Barrett, 
written  in  a  small  tremulous  hand.  The  name 
of  the  curate  is  given,  and  one  of  the  two 
witnesses  to  the  ceremony  was  the  faithful 
Wilson,  Mrs.  Browning's  maid.  The  clerk  also 
showed  us  the  programme  of  the  jubilee  cele- 
bration of  1896,  upon  which  occasion  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  and  many  other  distin- 
guished persons  were  present, — a  sad  golden 
wedding  anniversary,  when  the  bride  and  groom 
were  both  dead!  After  we  left  the  church  we 
took  an  omnibus  down  to  Piccadilly,  this  being 
a  democratic  expedition  and  no  cabs  permitted, 
and  so  by  Trafalgar  Square  to  the  Strand  and 
St.  Clement  Danes,  which  is  so  oddly  placed 
across  the  street  near  where  the  Strand  sud- 
denly becomes  Fleet  Street.  Dr.  Johnson  used 
to  worship  in  this  old  church  and  we  should,  by 
rights,  have  seen  the  interior,  but  it  seems 
always  to  be  closed  and  the  police  could  suggest 
no  means  of  opening  those  inhospitable  doors. 

194 


SIX   DAYS   IN   LONDON 


Fleet  Street,  where  once  flowed  the  pleasant 
little  river  Fleet,  is  filled  with  associations  of 
Johnson,  Boswell,  Goldsmith,  and  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  genial  circle  that  was  continually- 
meeting  at  the  Mitre,  the  Cheshire  Cheese,  and 
all  the  many  inns  of  this  part  of  London.  At 
the  Cheshire  Cheese  we  saw  the  old  dictionary- 
maker's  chair,  so  worn  that  it  was  clamped  in 
places  to  keep  it  from  falling  to  pieces.  In 
Gough's  Square,  near  by,  is  the  four-storied 
house,  with  its  many  chimneys,  in  which  John- 
son wrote  the  greater  part  of  his  dictionary. 
It  was  in  this  house  that  his  wife  died,  and 
here  he  afterwards  lived  with  the  strangely 
assorted  family  that  his  kindness  of  heart  had 
drawn  around  him — Miss  Williams,  an  impe- 
cunious poetess ;  Levett,  a  broken-down  apothe- 
cary, and  several  others  in  similar  condition. 
''Here,"  says  Mrs.  Thrale,  "he  nursed  whole 
nests  of  people,  the  lame,  the  blind,  the  sick, 
and  the  sorrowful."  A  nest,  it  was,  in  which 
the  poor  old  birds  were  frequently  unpleasant 
and  quarrelsome,  as  the  benevolent  host  him- 
self described  them  in  one  of  his  last  letters: 
''Williams  hates  everybody;  Levett  hates  Des- 
moulins,  and  does  not  love  Williams;  Des- 
moulins  hates  them  both;  Poll  loves  none  of 
them." 

195 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

As  we  learned  that  Dr.  Johnson  had  lived  in 
no  less  than  sixteen  houses  in  London,  we  gave 
up  any  idea  we  may  have  entertained  of  visit- 
ing all  of  his  homes,  and  turned  our  steps 
toward  Chancery  Lane,  through  which  little 
''Miss  Flite"  passed  so  often  on  her  fruitless 
errands.  Returning  by  Fetter's  Lane  and  the 
new  Record  Office,  we  crossed  Fleet  Street  and 
strolled  down  winding  lanes  to  the  Temple 
Church.  Is  there  anything  in  all  London  more 
interesting  than  this  round  church,  which  was 
built  as  a  memorial  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  with 
its  richly-carved  Norman  porch  and  its  beauti- 
ful interior?  On  the  stone  floor  lie  the  eflBgies 
of  eight  armed  knights,  all  of  whom  have  not 
been  identified  although  the  antiquarians  seem 
pretty  sure  that  one  of  them  is  Robert  Ros,  a 
Magna  Charta  baron.  The  church  looks  so 
many  years  older  than  the  choir  that  it  is  not 
easy  to  believe  that  only  fifty  years  or  so  lie 
between  them.  The  choir  is  handsome  and  rich 
in  decoration ;  but  is  much  less  impressive  than 
the  lovely  old  round  church.  "We  walked 
through  it  and  around  it  and,  upon  the  north 
side  near  the  master's  house,  we  came  upon  the 
grave  of  Goldsmith  in  a  quiet  corner,  under  the 
shadow  of  an  ivy-covered  wall.  A  bunch  of 
fresh  flowers  was  laid  upon  the  grave,  which 

196 


SIX   DAYS   IN   LONDON 


bears  the  simple  inscription,  "Here  lies  Oliver 
Goldsmith." 

Wandering  through  the  cloisters  and  in  and 
out  of  courts,  retracing  our  steps  more  than 
once,  as  we  had  not  Gay's  Trivia  to  guide  us 

"  where  winding  alleys  lead  the   doubtful  way," 

we  finally  emerged  upon  the  large  open  space 
called  Brick  Court.  It  was  here,  in  chambers 
on  the  second  floor,  that  Goldsmith  lived  during 
his  last  years,  giving  parties  to  young  people 
where  there  were  dancing  and  blind-man's 
buff,  making  many  people  happy  and  at  the 
same  time  driving  almost  to  madness,  by  the 
racket  above  him,  the  learned  Mr.  Blackstone, 
who  was  engaged  upon  his  Commentaries  in 
the  room  beneath. 

And  then,  joy  of  joys,  by  ways  that  I  could 
not  possibly  describe,  we  came  upon  a  still, 
green  court  where  a  fountain  was  playing.  I 
don't  see  how  we  could  have  missed  this  lovely 
spot  when  we  came  to  the  Middle  Temple  Hall, 
which  is  quite  near,  and  saw  the  long  table 
where  the  Benchers  dine,  and  the  platform 
upon  which  Twelfth  Night  was  acted  before 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  all  the  other  wonders  of 
the  Temple ;  but  as  we  came  upon  the  fountain 
this  morning  it  seemed  quite  new  to  us.    Then 

197 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

remembering  Dickens'  description  of  Euth 
Pinch  coming  to  meet  her  brother  Tom  near 
Fountain  Court,  we  knew  that  this  was  the  place 
toward  which  she  was  walking  briskly,  with 
*'the  best  little  laugh  upon  her  face  that  ever 
played  in  opposition  to  the  fountain  and  beat 
it  all  to  nothing."  And  then,  by  pure  accident 
in  this  most  ''unlikely  spot,"  as  Tom  says,  the 
lover  appeared  instead  of  the  brother.  As 
John  Westlock  overtook  the  dainty  little  figure 
in  the  ''sanctuary  of  Garden  Court"  and 
walked  off  with  her,  "Merrily  the  fountain 
leaped  and  danced,  and  merrily  the  smiling 
dimples  twinkled  and  expanded  more  and  more, 
until  they  broke  into  a  laugh  against  the  basin 
rim,  and  vanished." 

The  fountain  could  not  have  leaped  and 
danced  more  merrily  for  Dickens*  happy  lovers 
than  it  leaped  and  danced  and  plashed  for  us 
to-day,  throwing  its  spray  high  into  the  sunlit 
air  and  sprinkling  with  its  diamond  drops  the 
many  doves  that  were  bathing  and  preening 
upon  the  brim,  as  in  Pliny's  famous  basin  in 
Rome. 

It  was  so  cool  and  refreshing  in  this  Court, 
under  the  shade  of  the  great  trees,  here  in  the 
very  heart  of  London,  with  no  sound  to  break 
the  stillness  save  the  plashing  of  the  fountain, 

198 


SIX  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


that  we  were  tempted  to  linger  long.  Some- 
where over  beyond  the  Brick  Court  Johnson 
once  lived,  and  behind  us  in  the  Crown  Row 
Offices  Charles  Lamb  was  born,  in  the  midst 
of  all  that  he  afterward  so  loved,  and  beneath 
us,  at  the  foot  of  the  stone  steps,  is  the  rich 
green  lawn  of  the  Temple  Gardens.  Here, 
where  there  is  a  blaze  of  color  to-day,  scarlet 
and  pink  geraniums,  the  largest  fuchsias  I 
have  ever  seen,  and  lobelias  as  blue  as  the  sea 
at  Naples,  in  this  fair  garden,  were  plucked  the 
"red  and  white  roses  of  York  and  Lancaster." 
So  Shakespeare  tells  us  and  so  we  believe;  for 
Warwick  says, — 

"  This  brawl  today, 
Grown  to  this  faction  in  the  Temple  Garden, 
Shall  send,  beneath  the  red  roses  and  the  white, 
A  thousand  souls  to  death  and  deadly  night." 

The  green  lawn  slopes  down  to  the  Victoria 
Embankment  and  beyond  is  the  Thames,  on 
whose  proud  stream  afloat  passed  many  gay 
pageants  to  and  from  Westminster,  and  many 
a  sorrowful  company  to  the  Tower  below. 

We  had  some  luncheon  at  a  qhop  house  not 
far  away,  and  then  by  more  winding  ways,  by 
Covent  Garden  and  Clare  Markets,  and  by 
Drury  Lane  Theatre  and  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 

199 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

and  through,  a  narrow  dismal  street,  we 
reached  ''Torn  all  alone 's,"  the  graveyard  by 
whose  iron  gate  poor  Joe  used  to  stand  and 
upon  whose  stone  steps  Lady  Dedlock  was 
found  dead,  one  chill  morning.  The  old  grave- 
yard will  have  more  cheerful  associations,  in 
the  future,  as  it  seems  to  be  used  for  a  chil- 
dren's play-ground. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  we  met  Angela  and 
the  children  and  Dr.  Mclvor  at  Gunter's,  on 
Berkeley  Square,  where  we  had  some  tea  and 
ices,  the  latter  so  delicious  that  we  decided  that 
their  pastry  cook  must  be  a  Londoner  of  Amer- 
ican extraction.  Angela  had  some  amusing 
shopping  experiences  to  relate,  and  when  I 
told  Dr.  Mclvor  that  when  we  stopped  at  St. 
Bartholomew's  the  curate  was  conducting  the 
service  with  only  one  small  boy  in  lieu  of  a 
congregation,  and  expressed  my  surprise  at 
his  devout  attitude  and  responses,  the  Doctor 
laughed  so  immoderately  that  I  really  felt  un- 
comfortable until  he  explained  that  these  old 
churches  were  obliged  to  hold  a  certain  number 
of  services  in  order  to  retain  their  livings,  and 
that  my  ** devout  boy"  had  probably  been 
bribed  to  come  to  church  and  didn't  at  all 
enjoy  being  an  entire  congregation  in  one. 

Was  not  our  day  in  the  old  city  one  of  un- 

200 


SIX   DAYS   IN   LONDON 


mixed  delight?  No  wonder  that  Dr.  Johnson 
exclaimed,  when  he  sat  with  Bo  swell  at  the 
Mitre  Tavern,  near  Temple  Bar:  ''Sir,  the 
happiness  of  London  is  not  to  be  conceived  but 
by  those  who  have  been  in  it.  I  will  venture  to 
say  there  is  more  learning  and  science  within 
the  circumference  of  ten  miles  from  where  we 
sit  than  in  all  the  rest  of  the  kingdom." 

There  is  no  other  city  in  which  we  could 
have  taken  a  walk  among  associations  so  inter- 
esting and  so  varied,  except  Eome.  London 
and  Kome,  those  two  great  cities  so  different 
and  both  so  rich  in  background,  in  atmos- 
phere and  association,  are  still  the  places 
that  we  return  to  again  and  again  with  fresh 
enjoyment. 

August  16th. 

With  only  six  days  in  London,  for  Walter 
says  that  he  must  go  to  Oxford  on  Monday  to 
meet  his  engagement,  it  is  not  easy  to  choose  be- 
tween good,  better  and  best.  We  wish  to  have 
Christine  and  Lisa  see  some  of  the  buildings 
and  places  that  they  will  be  likely  to  remember, 
and  in  view  of  my  own  bewilderment  over  the 
Elgin  marbles,  which  were  to  me  somewhat  like 
the  Eleusinian  Mysteries,  we  spent  an  hour 
in  the  Bxitish  Museum  this  morning.  This 
seems  a  short  time  for  so  vast  a  collection,  too 

201 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

great  for  one  mind  to  grasp  in  days,  but  it 
seems  the  part  of  wisdom  to  pick  out  a  few 
things  from  the  mass  and  concentrate  upon 
them,  rather  than  scatter  one's  interest  over  a 
number  of  objects.  And  so  much  can  be  seen 
in  an  hour  if  one  knows  a  place  as  we  know  the 
Museum.  We  went  straight  to  the  Elgin  mar- 
bles. How  I  should  have  loved  to  see  these 
exquisite  reliefs  when  I  was  a  school-girl,  and 
what  advantages  the  girls  of  to-day  have  over 
us!  They  really  should  be  much  brighter. 
Here  are  these  children  suddenly  brought  face 
to  face  with  the  wonders  of  the  world,  and  all 
that  we  have  a  right  to  expect  of  them  is  that 
they  may  carry  away  in  their  minds  some  scat- 
tered impressions  of  beauty  and  grace.  Marvels 
from  Assyria,  from  Egypt,  from  everywhere, 
are  gathered  here,  and  from  Greece  these  ex- 
quisite marbles,  the  Three  Fates  from  the 
Parthenon,  and  the  long  processions  of  grace- 
ful figures,  moving  to  the  sound  of  music,  with 
their  clinging,  floating  draperies,  so  lovely, 
broken  and  fragmentary  as  they  are,  that  we 
wondered  how  they  could  have  been  more  im- 
pressive in  their  perfection.  * '  The  last  word  in 
plastic  art.*'  Shall  the  world  ever  again  pro- 
duce anything  as  beautiful,  and  will  it  ever 
re-capture 

202 


SIX   DAYS   IN  LONDON 


"  That  long  lost  spell  in  secret  given, 
To  draw  down  gods  and  lift  the  soul  to  heaven  "  ? 

In  the  Grseco-Eoman  room  is  the  superb 
Discobolus,  quoit-thrower,  and  the  exquisite 
Aphrodite  loosing  her  sandal;  and  here  is  the 
Demeter  of  Cnidos  that  you  and  I  were  never 
weary  of  looking  at, — such  strength  and  dig- 
nity of  pose,  and  so  much  sweetness  and  nobil- 
ity of  expression  in  the  lovely  womanly  face! 
Broken  and  imperfect  as  it  is,  it  still  holds  us 
fast  by  its  serene  beauty  and  human  tender- 
ness, by  which  last  attribute  it  might  easily 
stand  as  a  symbol  of  the  universal  motherhood. 
No  children  gather  around  the  goddess,  but  one 
can  well  fancy  them  encircling  her  knees  with 
their  little  arms  and  pillowing  their  heads  upon 
her  ample  bosom,  for  love  and  protecting  care 
are  written  upon  the  lines  of  the  tender  mouth 
and  softly  rounded  chin  of  this  generous  and 
bountiful  Ceres. 

Passing  through  the  Roman  galleries,  where 
all  the  Emperors  stand,  I  felt  as  if  we  were 
almost  in  the  Museum  of  the  Vatican  with  you 
and  Allan,  there  is  so  much  here  to  remind 
one  of  it !  Yet  with  all  the  art  and  beauty  that 
we  meet  here,  we  must  always  miss  those  three 
marvellous  figures  standing  close  together,  the 

203 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

Laocoon,  the  ''Lord  of  the  unerring  bow,"  and 
the  perfect  Antinous;  and  then,  in  a  way,  one 
misses  something  of  the  Italian  atmosphere 
that  so  irradiates  its  marbles,  for  which  the 
cold  gray  light  of  this  cold  gray  building  gives 
us  no  equivalent.  Here  is  the  noble  figure  of 
Hadrian,  whom  we  seem  to  know  better  since 
we  have  seen  something  of  his  works  in  the 
north  of  England,  the  strong,  earnest  face 
of  one  who  has  accomplished  much  and  to  whom 
the  world  has  revealed  much.  Philosopher, 
lawmaker,  nation  builder,  philanthropist  and 
traveller,  in  his  last  days,  when  clouds  and 
darkness  gathered  about  him,  how  infinitely 
pathetic  is  the  great  Emperor's  invocation  to 
his  own  soul  in  view  of  its  final  journey!  Dr. 
Mclvor  was  with  us,  and  being  fresh  from  his 
classical  studies  was  able  to  repeat  the  well- 
known  lines: 

"  Ah,  fleeting  spirit !  wandering  fire, 
That  long  hast  warmed  my  tender  breast, 
Must  thou  no  more  this  frame  inspire, 
No  more  a  pleasing  cheerful  guest? 
Whither,  ah,  whither  art  thou  flying? 
To  what  dark,  undiscovered  shore  ?  " 

"Was  not  our  hour  a  profitable  one?  Instead 
of  walking  through  miles  of  statues,  which  is 
one  way  of  doing  a  gallery,  we  really  enjoyed 

204 


SIX   DAYS   IN   LONDON 


what  we  saw;  and  we  did  not  quite  neglect  the 
porcelains  and  gems,  as  we  went  upstairs  to 
see  the  precious  stones,  intaglios,  and  cameos, 
and  above  all  to  have  a  look  at  the  Portland 
Vase,  which  is  near  the  jewels,  as  it  should  be, 
being  a  gem  of  exquisite  color.  As  we  were 
admiring  the  cameo  designs  upon  the  sides, 
and  marvelling  over  the  ingenuity  that  had  put 
together  the  hundred  fragments  into  a  perfect 
whole,  Angela  turned  her  laughing  face  to  Dr. 
Mclvor,  and  said,  ''After  all,  I  don't  think  it 
is  what  it  's  cracked  up  to  be;  do  you?"  Dr. 
Mclvor  looked  surprised  and  rather  shocked, 
at  Angela's  lack  of  taste,  and  then  seeing 
us  all  laugh,  even  the  children,  as  we  had  just 
explained  to  them  how  the  vase  had  been 
cracked  and  broken,  he  grasped  the  fact  that 
a  joke  was  in  the  air,  and  laughed  so  im- 
moderately that  Walter  warned  him  that  he 
was  in  danger  of  being  arrested  by  the  guard, 
M.D.'s  being  especially  unpopular  here  as  it 
was  a  "medical  man"  who  once  shattered  the 
precious  vase.  Walter  insists,  now  at  nine 
P.M.,  that  the  Doctor  is  still  laughing,  adding, 
"If  these  Scotchmen  are  a  long  time  taking  a 
joke,  they  know  how  to  hold  on  to  it  all  right ! ' ' 
Hampton  Court  in  summer  time  is  quite  too 
attractive  to  be  neglected,  and  we  had  an  after- 

205 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

noon  there  in  the  galleries  among  the  famous 
Lelys  and  Van  Dycks,  that  you  know  so  well, 
and  in  the  grounds,  by  the  lake,  where  swans, 
black  and  white,  are  always  floating  by  under 
the  bridges.  Later  on,  we  took  a  steam  tram 
to  Eichmond,  and  climbed  up  a  long  hill  to  the 
Star  and  Garter,  where  we  had  tea  on  the  ter- 
race and  thought  of  that  July  day  when  we 
were  all  so  merry  here  together.  One  of  the 
very  same  waiters  brought  us  our  tea,  a 
Frenchman,  who  beamed  with  delight  when  he 
saw  us,  called  Angela  '' Madame, '^  asked  after 
*' Monsieur,"  and  looked  askance  at  Dr. 
Mclvor,  wondering,  I  suppose,  why  Archie  had 
left  his  fair  bride  so  soon,  and  why  another 
had  taken  his  place.  It  was  all  so  absurd  that, 
just  to  see  what  would  happen  next,  I  talked 
to  Angela  about  Archie  until,  for  some  unac- 
countable reason,  she  blushed  rosy  red,  upon 
which  Dr.  Mclvor  assumed  his  most  serious 
professional  air,  became  very  distant  in  his 
manner  to  **the  grown  ups,"  and  devoted  him- 
self exclusively  to  Christine  and  Lisa  for  the 
remainder  of  the  afternoon. 

The  sail  down  the  Thames,  by  the  light  of 
the  crescent  moon,  was  so  enchanting  that  it 
would  have  dispelled  depression  much  more 
profound  than  Dr.  Mclvor  *s,  which  yielded  to 

206 


SIX  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


the  influence  of  the  hour  and  the  scene.  "We 
were  soon  talking  together  merrily,  he  relat- 
ing to  us  some  quaint  Scotch  superstitions  and 
folklore  that  we  all  delight  in  as  much  as  the 
children,  and  Walter  capping  the  Doctor's 
tales  with  some  of  our  American  folklore. 

Sunday,  August  18tli. 
Is  there  anything  in  Puritan  New  England 
more  Puritanical  than  a  London  Sunday?  It 
really  gives  one  some  faint  conception  of 
what  England  must  have  been  under  the  Pro- 
tectorate, and  always  comes  as  a  fresh  sur- 
prise to  me  after  a  sojourn  on  the  Continent. 
One  cannot  fail  to  respect  a  nation  that  main- 
tains its  own  ideals  so  persistently,  when  only 
a  narrow  channel  separates  it  from  the  gayest 
of  Sunday  keepers.  However  the  brilliant 
throng,  that  we  saw  in  Hyde  Park  earlier  in 
the  summer,  may  be  spending  its  Sundays  at 
Continental  resorts,  the  mass  of  the  British 
nation  seems  to  respect  the  day.  They  very 
sensibly  enjoy  their  parks  in  the  afternoons, 
but  how  full  the  churches  are  in  the  mornings  I 
We  have  noticed  this  in  the  smaller  towns,  as 
well  as  in  London.  Petticoat  Lane,  which  we 
visited  this  morning  under  Dr.  Mclvor's  guid- 
ance, seems  to  be  governed  by  none  of  the  regu- 

207 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 


lations  that  control  the  rest  of  London,  for 
here  was  the  Continental  Sunday  and  we  felt 
that  we  might  be  in  Italy,  France,  anywhere 
except  in  England.  Carts  and  booths  lined  the 
streets,  upon  which  all  sorts  of  wares  were 
displayed, — shoes  and  old  clothes,  which  the 
venders  put  on  to  show  how  good  they  were; 
high  hats,  disreputable  and  battered;  second- 
hand silver  plate  and  tinware,  trumpery  trink- 
ets and  finery  the  worse  for  the  wear,  and  any 
quantity  of  eatables,  if  we  may  so  call  the  stale 
unsavory  fish,  meat  and  vegetables,  and  the 
imripe  fruits,  that  were  set  forth  upon  these 
stalls. 

And  yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  there  was 
an  undercurrent  of  gayety  in  Petticoat  Lane. 
In  some  places  the  women  and  children  were 
dancing  to  the  music  of  a  hand-organ  or  hurdy- 
gurdy,  and  everywhere  there  was  chattering 
and  chaffering.  Perhaps  it  was  a  little  more 
cheerful  this  morning  because  the  day  was 
unusually  fine,  and  the  general  largess  of  fresh 
air  and  sunshine  is  something  that  the  poorest 
street  may  share. 

Although  we  had,  at  Dr.  Mclvor's  request, 
worn  our  plainest  and  darkest  clothes,  and  left 
our  trinkets  and  watches  at  home,  we  noticed 
that  a  ** bobby'*  kept  quite  close  to  us  all  the 

208 


SIX   DAYS   IN   LONDON 


time.  We  could  see  no  necessity  for  this,  for 
although  there  was  poverty  and  wretchedness 
on  all  sides,  we  saw  very  few  really  hard  and 
desperate  faces.  Dr.  Mclvor,  who  is  familiar 
with  all  of  this  region,  says  that  there  are 
depths  of  misery  in  some  of  these  lanes  and 
alleys  that  we  could  not  possibly  fathom. 
Once,  when  we  were  passing  a  group  of  men 
playing  some  game,  he  drew  Angela's  hand 
through  his  arm  and  hurried  her  along,  mo- 
tioning us  to  follow  quickly.  I  think  that  he 
was  relieved  when  the  tour  of  inspection  was 
over;  but  as  it  appeared  to  us,  the  poverty 
was  less  abject  than  that  of  Liverpool,  and 
alas!  for  our  boasted  New  World  prosperity, 
it  seemed  not  much  worse  than  many  of  the 
streets  of  our  own  cities.  A  number  of  foreign 
faces  were  among  the  London  born.  "Little 
Italys"  there  are  here,  as  with  us  at  home. 

Thinking  this  a  good  opportunity  to  see  the 
People's  Palace,  we  came  out  by  Whitechapel 
Road  and  past  Toynbee  Hall,  and  took  an  om- 
nibus on  Mile  End  Road.  All  this  East  End 
of  London,  made  so  familiar  to  us  by  Walter 
Besant's  novel,  is  quite  different,  and  more 
modern  than  the  London  of  Johnson  and 
Dickens  that  we  wandered  through  on  Wed- 
nesday, and  is  apparently  more  prosperous' 

14  209 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

than  the  Whitechapel  district.  Dr.  Mclvor 
says  that  this  quarter  is  chiefly  inhabited  by 
artisans.  He  lived  here  himself  for  a  time,  as 
one  of  the  resident  physicians  at  the  London 
Hospital,  which  we  passed.  We  were  glad  to 
see  so  much  of  the  East  End ;  but  unfortunately 
we  found  the  People's  Palace  closed. 

Why  should  any  good  place  be  closed  on  a 
Sunday,  when  it  is  most  needed,  when  the  gin 
palaces  and  all  the  dens  of  iniquity  are  wide 
open?  Quite  aside  from  our  disappointment 
in  not  seeing  the  ''Palace  of  Delight,"  this 
survival  of  Puritanism  aroused  our  indigna- 
tion ;  but  we  were  somewhat  mollified  when  the 
Doctor  told  us  that  the  house  was  opened  in  the 
afternoons  and  evenings  for  organ  recitals. 
So,  in  a  comparatively  Christian  frame  of 
mind,  we  made  our  way  to  Westminster  Abbey, 
where  we  were  joined  by  the  children,  some 
friends  who  are  stopping  at  our  house  having 
brought  them  to  meet  us. 

We  sat  in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  the  Abbey 
near  the  tombs  of  Tennyson  and  Browning 
and  Chaucer,  with  Dryden's,  Longfellow's,  and 
many  more  sculptured  faces  looking  down  upon 
us,  and  listened  to  a  very  good  sermon  from 
our  favorite  Canon  Wilberforce,  just  as  you  and 
I  have  sat  there  so  often.    You  know  the  Abbey 

210 


SIX   DAYS   IN   LONDON 


so  well  that  there  is  no  use  telling  you  anything 
about  it,  but  one  thing  which  we  saw  may  in- 
terest you.  We  have  so  often  noticed  fresh 
flowers  on  the  tombs  of  Dickens  and  of  some 
of  the  poets,  but  the  other  day  when  we  were 
here  we  saw  some  white  chrysanthemums  upon 
the  Andre  monument,  and  a  small  cross  of 
goldenrod  to  which  a  card  was  attached,  with 
a  few  lines  written  upon  it,  saying,  that 
^*  Every  American  schoolboy  regrets  the  fate 
of  Major  Andre,  and  this  goldenrod  has  been 
brought  from  Delaware,  in  America,  as  a 
tribute  to  the  young  English  soldier.'* 

Some  people,  evidently  English,  had  been 
reading  the  card  and  seemed  puzzled  by  the 
words.  I  wondered  if  they  never  heard  of 
Andre.  Perhaps  not,  as  the  American  Revolu- 
tion is  a  far  less  important  event  in  their  his- 
tory than  in  our  own.  I,  for  one,  quite 
sympathize  with  the  American  schoolboy,  but 
the  men  of  the  party  both  insist  that  when 
Andre  put  himself  in  the  position  of  a  spy  he 
made  himself  liable  to  suffer  the  consequences, 
and  had  no  right  to  expect  anything  else. 

Angela  says  that  is  a  very  cold-blooded  way 
of  looking  at  it  and  that  the  whole  affair  was 
''tragic,"  upon  which  she  and  Dr.  Mclvor  had 
an  animated  discussion.    With  all  due  respect 

211 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

to  Washington,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me 
that,  in  view  of  his  youth  and  of  many  extenu- 
ating circumstances,  the  life  of  John  Andre 
might  have  been  spared,  but  Walter  insists 
that  the  execution  of  young  Hale  by  the  British 
made  the  hanging  of  Andre  a  necessity  accord- 
ing to  the  code  of  war.  All  the  necessities  of 
war  are  so  horrible,  that  one  is  glad  to  look 
about  this  great  Abbey  and  realize  that  here 
the  victories  of  peace  are  quite  as  generously 
crowned  as  those  of  war.  When  shall  we,  in 
the  streets  of  our  capital,  erect  monuments  to 
novelists,  poets,  philosophers,  statesmen,  sci- 
entists, philanthropists,  and  all  the  other  great 
ones,  who  have  helped  to  make  life  more  livable, 
as  they  have  done  here,  instead  of  the  ever- 
recurring  man  on  horseback? 

What  a  wonderfully  thrilling  and  inspiring 
place  the  Abbey  is,  even  if  many  of  the  monu- 
ments are  not  to  our  taste!  We  went  to  the 
gorgeous  Henry  VII  Chapel,  as  I  always  do, 
to  see  again  the  recumbent  figure  of  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots,  which,  despite  the  fact  that 
Baedeker  speaks  of  it  as  ** inartistic,"  is  quite 
lovely  to  my  less  critical  eye.  Here  Mary  Stu- 
art reigns  in  beauty,  in  death  as  in  life,  and 
is  it  not  one  of  time's  revenges  that,  even  after 
Elizabeth  had  wreaked  her  worst  upon  her 

212 


SIX   DAYS   IN   LONDON 


rival,  Mary's  descendants  still  sit  upon  the 
throne  of  Great  Britain,  and  are  likely  to  sit 
there  as  long  as  England  is  a  monarchy !  This 
reminds  me  of  our  afternoon  at  Kensington 
Palace,  where  we  spent  an  hour  or  more  amo*ng 
the  associations  of  Mary  Stuart's  descendant 
by  several  removes.  Here  are  many  personal 
belongings  of  the  late  Queen,  from  her  tiny 
black  satin  baby  shoes  to  her  wedding  bonnet, 
a  quite  good-sized  scoop  trimmed  with  tulle 
and  orange  blossoms.  It  was  pleasant  to  look 
at  the  Queen's  old  bonnet,  and  think  how  happy 
the  bride  was  who  wore  it.  You  and  I,  for 
some  reason,  have  never  found  our  way  to  this 
old  Palace.  We  went  for  the  children's  pleas- 
ure but  we  enjoyed  it  quite  as  much  ourselves. 
They  were  delighted  to  see  the  Princess  Vic- 
toria's playthings,  such  simple  little  wooden 
toys,  Noah's  arks  and  a  doll's  house  with  the 
plainest  furniture,  a  great  contrast  to  the  elab- 
orate toys  that  children  even  in  moderate  cir- 
cumstances have  to-day.  I  was  especially 
interested  in  the  Queen's  library,  which  King 
Edward  has  placed  here  since  his  mother's 
death.  All  of  her  books  seem  to  be  in  this 
collection,  from  those  given  to  her  in  her  baby- 
hood down  to  presentation  copies  from  au- 
thors sent  to  her  during  the  last  years  of  her 

213 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

life.  On  the  fly  leaf  of  many  of  the  earlier 
books  is  written,  *'To  my  beloved  Victoria 
from  her  Mamma,"  and  upon  one,  of  which  I 
could  not  see  the  name,  is  written,  '*To  my 
beloved  Victoria  on  the  day  of  her  Confirma- 
tion," with  the  date,  which  was  not  a  very 
early  one,  about  1835,  a  short  time  before  she 
was  crowned.  These  souvenirs  were  all  inter- 
esting to  me,  as  is  everything  connected  with 
the  very  natural  and  sweet  domestic  life  of  the 
Queen  and  her  family.  Our  Scotchman  is  not 
quite  as  much  attached  to  Queen  Victoria  as  I 
am,  and  Angela  says:  "She  never  could  have 
been  handsome,  no  matter  how  many  times  she 
was  Queen  of  England,  Empress  of  India,  and 
all  that,"  which  latter  title  Dr.  Mclvor  scoffs 
at,  calling  it  one  of  ''Dizzy's  manufacture." 

In  speaking  to  some  English  ladies,  of  our 
afternoon  at  Kensington  Palace,  they  expressed 
great  interest  in  what  we  had  seen  and  regaled 
us  with  a  rather  amusing  story  about  the  Prin- 
cess Eoyal,  who,  according  to  all  accounts,  must 
have  been  a  very  high-strung  and  independent 
child.  One  day  when  little  Victoria  was  work- 
ing in  her  garden,  her  royal  mamma  remon- 
strated with  her  on  account  of  her  extravagance 
in  wearing  gloves  that  she  thought  quite  too 
good  for  the  purpose,  adding,  ''When  I  was  a 

214 


SIX  DAYS  IN   LONDON 


little  girl,  my  dear,  I  never  wore  such  good 
gloves  to  work  in  my  garden."  Upon  which 
Victoria  junior  replied,  ''Oh,  I  dare  say;  but 
then  you  were  not  born  Princess  Royal  of  Eng- 
land!" Delicious,  was  n't  it?  I  can  almost  hear 
the  Queen  laughing  over  the  cleverness  of  her 
eldest  born,  as  she  had,  I  believe,  some  sense  of 
humor  although  she  did  not  show  it  when  she 
administered  chastisement  to  one  of  the  young 
princes  with  the  proverbial  slipper,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  some  dignitaries  of  the  Court.  There,  I 
must  really  stop  gossiping  with  you  about  the 
royal  family  and  begin  to  pack,  as  our  trunks  go 
to  Oxford,  early  to-morrow  morning,  by  the  car- 
rier.   Does  that  not  have  a  Dickensian  sound? 


IX 

STORIED  WINDOWS  RICHLY  DIGHT 


The  Grilling, 

Oxford,  August  19th. 

When  our  Scotchman  left  us  last  night  we 
thought  to  see  him  no  more,  but  he  appeared 
this  morning,  bright  and  smiling,  saying  that 
he  had  had  a  letter  from  home,  the  night  be- 
fore, which  made  it  possible  for  him  to  spend 
a  day  with  us  in  Oxford.  Walter  and  I  are 
glad  to  have  him,  and  the  children  adore  him 
and  are  never  tired  of  his  tales  of  fairies, 
bogies,  and  all  the  quaint  lore  in  which  the 
Scotch  delight. 

And  Angela?  I  hear  you  ask;  and  quite 
unreasonably,  you  must  admit,  as  you  know 
well  that  you  and  I  could  never  quite  under- 
stand Angela  when  there  was  any  question 
of  suitors.  At  times  she  is  so  charming  to  Dr. 
Mclvor  that  I  tremble  for  his  peace  of  mind, 
and  again,  without  rhyme  or  reason,  she  is  so 
short  and  crusty  that  I  have  to  be  so  very  nice 
to  him  to  make  amends,  that  Angela  actually 

216 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


accuses  me  of  flirting  with  liim,  which  I  tell 
her  is  disrespectful  to  my  gray  hairs,  and 
most  ungrateful,  when  I  was  only  trying  to 
smooth  over  her  asperities.  He  seems  to  have 
quite  recovered  his  spirits  since  our  Richmond 
experience,  and  bears  Angela's  variations  of 
temperature  with  great  equanimity.  I  really 
have  no  right  to  speak  of  Dr.  Mclvor  as  a 
suitor,  so  please  look  upon  that  as  a  figure  of 
speech.  He  is  apparently  equally  devoted  to  us 
all,  except  that  he  may  be  a  little  more  attentive 
to  Christine,  of  whose  improved  appearance 
he  is  very  proud.  He  talks  to  Walter  and  to 
me  much  more  than  to  Angela;  but  one  nat- 
urally wonders  why  he  accompanies  us  so 
persistently.  He  and  Walter  are  congenial 
companions,  to  be  sure,  but  is  it  for  the  love 
of  Walter,  or  Christine,  or  for  the  sake  of  my 
beaux  yeux  that  he  seems  ready  to  leave 
everything  and  follow  us?  Now  he  is  talking 
of  joining  us  in  Devonshire  and  spending  his 
summer  vacation  there.  I  fancy  that  like  many 
another  young  doctor,  there  is  more  holiday 
than  work  in  his  life  at  present. 

Our  journey  to-day  was  enchanting,  as  we 
came  from  W^allingford  to  Oxford  by  the  water 
ways  that  I  love.  At  Wallingford,  where  we 
lunched  upon  every  known  variety    of    cold 

217 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

meat, — and  it  sometimes  seems  as  if  there  were 
more  cold  meats  to  be  had  in  England  than 
anywhere  else, — we  had  time  before  the  boat 
started  to  walk  about  and  see  the  old  church 
where  Blackstone,  the  great  jurist,  is  buried, 
which  was,  of  course,  interesting  to  Wal- 
ter. A  few  miles  above  Wallingford  the  trial 
*' Eights"  of  Oxford  are  rowed.  The  river 
trip  is  most  interesting,  through  a  number  of 
locks,  and  by  picturesque  villages  and  country- 
seats.  All  that  was  needed  to  make  the  after- 
noon a  perfect  success  was  sunshine,  which  has 
deserted  us  to-day,  but  even  so  the  river  was 
full  of  boating  parties,  the  men  in  light  summer 
costume,  and  the  women  in  the  delicate  pinks 
and  blues  in  which  they  delight.  Surely  there 
are  no  people  who  enjoy  out-of-door  life  and 
make  the  best  of  their  somewhat  uncomfort- 
able climate  as  do  the  English — except  the 
Scotch,  perhaps.  When  we  expressed  surprise 
at  seeing  so  many  boats  on  the  river  this  dull 
chilly  afternoon,  the  Doctor  said,  ''Why,  what 
would  you  have?  It  doesn't  rain,  and  I  do 
not  believe  we  shall  have  more  than  a  sprinkle 
before  we  get  to  Oxford."  We  had  a  quite 
lively  sprinkle  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon, 
which  did  not,  however,  disturb  the  serenity  of 
the  water  parties. 

218 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


The  Thames  flows  through  level  pasture 
lands  and,  in  some  places,  is  so  narrow  that  it 
seems  more  like  a  winding  meadow  brook  than 
a  river,  but  it  is  infinitely  picturesque  with 
the  trees  and  bushes  growing  so  close  to  the 
shore  on  both  sides  that  their  reflections  in  the 
clear  stream  meet  and  mingle,  while  their 
branches  dip  and  bathe  their  leaves  in  the 
sparkling  water.  Narrow  as  it  is  here  one 
would  not  have  the  Thames  an  inch  wider.  In 
England  more  than  in  most  places,  we  learn 
the  beauty  of  landscapes  in  miniature,  such  as 
Constable  gives  us  with  his  own  irresistible 
charm. 

Just  where  the  Thames  becomes  the  Isis  no 
one  seems  to  be  able  to  tell  us.  At  Sandford, 
three  miles  from  Oxford,  we  were  still  upon 
the  Thames,  and  without  any  notice  whatever 
we  found  ourselves  floating  upon  the  classic 
Isis  near  the  picturesque  Iffley  Mill.  You  re- 
member it,  I  am  sure,  and  the  old  Norman 
church  behind  the  mill.  We  are  coming  some 
day  to  see  it  and  its  beautiful  carved  door- 
ways. At  Culham  Lock  we  passed  under  a 
curious  bridge,  with  arches  of  four  different 
shapes,  and  soon  after  we  came  to  Sandford 
and  the  wooded  slopes  of  Nuneham  Courtenay, 
which  Hawthorne  found  "as  perfect  as  any- 

219 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

thing  earthly  can  be. ' '  Near  Iffley,  the  Thames 
or  the  Isis,  whichever  it  is,  widens  into  quite 
a  respectable  river.  Here  the  University  races 
are  rowed,  and  barges  and  house-boats  abound. 
My  only  association  with  a  house-boat  is  in 
Rudder  Grange,  but  these  floating  domiciles 
are  so  well  adapted  to  the  conditions  surround- 
ing them  that  it  would,  I  fancy,  be  quite  impos- 
sible to  have  the  amusing  experiences  in  any 
of  them  that  befell  the  characters  in  Mr.  Stock- 
ton's tale.  The  children  are  excited  over  the 
idea  of  keeping  house  in  a  boat,  and  I  must 
confess  that  the  idea  appeals  to  my  imagina- 
tion as  well.  Shall  we  come  here  some  summer 
and  take  a  house-boat  for  a  month  and  learn 
to  know  this  beautiful  Thames,  ''turf  and  twig 
and  water  and  soyle," — ^which,  after  all,  can 
hardly  boast  a  lovelier  spot  than  by  the  lock 
at  Iflfley  Mill,  whose  odd  gables  and  straight 
tall  poplars  are  suggestive  of  a  landscape  on 
the  Seine  rather  than  the  approach  to  Eng- 
land's greatest  university  town. 

Near  where  the  Cherwell  flows  into  the  Isis 
we  caught  a  glimpse  of  many  spires,  and  the 
square  tower  of  Magdalen,  and  realized  that 
we  were  coming  into  Oxford.  At  Folly  Bridge 
we  were  met  by  a  curious  nondescript  vehicle, 
more  like  a  double  hansom  than  anything  else, 

220 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


in  wliich  we  were  driven  to  our  lodgings.  We 
are  really  in  lodgings  this  time  and  most  com- 
fortably situated  in  a  suite  of  rooms  which  are 
students'  quarters  in  term  time.  We  have  a 
large  dining-  and  living-room  combined,  into 
which  our  bed-rooms  open,  and  so  are  quite  en 
famille.  Although  we  enjoy  the  freedom  of 
this  way  of  living,  I  have  not  given  up  my 
preference  for  the  sociability  of  the  table 
d'hote,  which  we  enjoyed  so  much  in  York. 
Our  front  windows  look  down  upon  the  High 
not  far  from  Carfax,  and  we  enter  our  lodging 
through  a  court  that  opens  into  a  flower  mar- 
ket filled  with  gorgeous  autumnal  flowers, 
which  makes  our  coming  and  going  somewhat 
festive  and  distinctly  rural,  although  we  are 
in  the  very  heart  of  Oxford  with  more  col- 
leges within  walking  distance  than  we  could 
see  in  a  fortnight. 

Miss  Cassandra  is  here.  We  met  her  on 
the  High,  where  one  meets  all  one's  acquaint- 
ances in  Oxford.  She  is  stopping  with  friends 
who  live  in  a  lovely  country-seat  near  Iffley,  but 
to-morrow  she  leaves  for  Cambridge  to  join 
her  niece  and  visit  other  friends  there.  She 
seems  always  to  have  hosts  of  friends  waiting 
to  receive  her,  and  like  the  royal  family  her 
advent  is  heralded  in  some  way  even  if  it  does 

221 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

not  get  into  the  newspapers.  Walter  tells  Miss 
Cassandra  that  he  verily  believes  ''that  if  she 
suddenly  appeared  upon  an  oasis  in  the  desert 
of  Sahara,  she  would  find  a  friend  sitting  under 
a  palm  tree,  fanning  herself,  and  wondering 
why  her  camel  is  so  late." 

We  were  on  our  way  to  Christ  Church  and 
the  Bodleian  Library  and  begged  Miss  Cas- 
sandra to  bear  us  company,  which  she  was 
nothing  loath  to  do.  Angela  and  the  children 
were  fascinated  by  her,  of  course,  and  I 
watched  Dr.  Mclvor's  face  with  considerable 
interest.  He  had  never  seen  a  Quakeress  and 
Miss  Cassandra's  speech  and  manner  evidently 
interested  him,  as  he  never  took  his  eyes  off 
her  when  she  was  talking,  and  asked  me  hun- 
dreds of  questions  about  the  Friends  after- 
wards. He  will  never  suffer  from  lack  of 
questioning  upon  any  and  all  subjects;  but  like 
most  Scotch  people  he  seems  to  object  to  an- 
swering questions,  and  when  he  does  it  is  in 
such  a  roundabout  way  that  we  "have  to  dig 
out  the  meanings,"  as  Angela  says.  This 
morning  we  were  ''personally  conducted"  by 
the  Doctor,  who  knows  Oxford  well,  having 
,  taken  some  special  courses  here.  He  took  us 
to  see  the  old  tombs  and  monuments  at  Christ 
Church,  especially  the  shrine  of  St.  Frideswide, 

222 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


whose  nunnery  dates  back  to  740.  The  shrine, 
he  says,  was  probably  a  "watching  chamber;" 
he  also  showed  us  arches  and  bits  of  the  old 
nunnery  walls  which  Cardinal  Wolsey  for- 
tunately left  standing,  although  his  intention 
was  to  pull  down  all  of  the  ancient  building  and 
erect  a  magnificent  structure  to  be  called  Cardi- 
nal's College.  The  Prior's  tomb,  that  of  Sir 
George  Nowers,  a  companion  of  our  dear  Black 
Prince,  and  that  of  Lady  Elizabeth  de  Monta- 
cute,  who  gave  a  meadow  to  Christ  Church,  are 
the  oldest  here  and  for  some  reason  look  even 
older  than  they  are.  We  walked  through  the 
superb  dining  hall  where  so  many  portraits 
hang,  one  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  in  his  brilliant 
scarlet  robes,  a  striking  portrait  of  Henry 
VIII,  one  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  many  more. 
It  is  altogether  a  most  gorgeous  mediaeval  hall, 
with  its  rich  carvings  of  Irish  oak  and  many 
armorial  bearings,  only  second  in  richness  to 
that  at  Westminster.  From  the  dining  hall  we 
went  down  into  the  kitchens,  which  are  very  old 
and  interesting,  just  as  they  were  built  by  Wol- 
sey, reminding  one  by  their  size  and  substantial 
structure  of  the  Kitchens  of  St.  Louis.  Miss 
Cassandra  was  particularly  interested  in  a 
monster  gridiron,  or  spit,  on  wheels,  a  relic  of 
the  cuisine  of  the  past  when  a  large  number  of 

223 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

students  were  cooked  for  at  Christ's,  many 
more,  they  tell  us,  than  are  here  to-day. 

We  crossed  the  Great  Quadrangle  of  Christ 
Church,  the  largest  in  Oxford,  and  coming  out 
by  the  Tom  Gate  we  were  so  near  the  Broad 
Walk  that  we  were  tempted  to  stroll  under  the 
trees  to  the  narrow  street  that  leads  to 
Merton,  and  Corpus  Christi.  Really  one 
cannot  walk  a  hundred  yards  here  with- 
out coming  upon  something  rich  and  strange, 
like  the  old  gateway  of  Merton,  with  the 
remarkable  carvings  over  the  arch  of  John 
the  Baptist  preaching  in  the  Wilderness, 
Henry  III,  and  other  important  personages  of 
widely  different  periods.  This  gate,  one  of  the 
oldest  things  in  Oxford,  is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  and  picturesque. 

By  ways  that  we  knew  not  and  with  very  lit- 
tle walking  Dr.  Mclvor  brought  us  to  Oriel, 
whose  beautiful  windows  overlook  one  of  its 
quads,  this  college  being  blessed  with  two 
quadrangles.  The  associations  of  Oriel  are 
simply  overwhelming,  as  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
Bishop  Butler,  Keble  the  hymn-writer,  Cardi- 
nal Newman,  Dr.  Arnold,  Thomas  Hughes, 
Bishop  Wilberforce,  Matthew  Arnold  and  his 
friend  Arthur  Clough  were  all  Oriel  men.  ''A 
cloud  of  witnesses  whose  influence  upon  the 

224 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


world  is  too  great  for  one  mind  to  grasp,"  as 
Miss  Cassandra  expresses  it.  The  dear  lady 
has  a  question  which  she  hopes  to  have  an- 
swered by  some  of  the  learned  ones  at  the  Bod- 
leian. She  has  heard  that  President  Lincoln's 
Gettysburg  address  is  used  at  Oxford,  as  an 
example  of  vigorous  and  terse  English,  and  she 
wishes  to  know  just  how  and  when  it  is  so  used. 
This  seems  wonderful,  almost  beyond  belief, 
at  a  seat  of  learning  where  a  ''well  of  English 
undefyled"  has  flowed  from  Dan  Chaucer's 
time  to  our  own.  Dr.  Mclvor  is  disposed  to 
doubt  the  fact  altogether,  but  Miss  Cassandra's 
authority  is  a  good  one  and  she  will  solve  the 
problem,  if  it  can  be  done  by  mortal  woman. 

At  the  Bodleian  Dr.  Mclvor  showed  us  a 
number  of  manuscripts,  among  them  the  orig- 
inal of  the  Ruhdiydt  of  Omar  Khayyam,  the 
earliest  known  manuscript  of  Omar  Khayyam, 
written  A.D.  1460,  and  the  one  used  by  Edward 
Fitzgerald  in  his  translation,  or  adaptation, 
or  whatever  you  may  call  his  presentation  of 
that  beautiful,  haunting  poem.  We  also  saw  an 
Abyssinian  manuscript,  with  a  story  very  much 
like  the  English  St.  George  and  the  Dragon. 
It  is  illustrated  and  the  patron  saint  of  Eng- 
land looked  rather  odd  with  Ethiopian  features. 
Most  interesting  of  all,  and  most  curious,  was 

15  225 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

a  fragment  of  a  letter,  in  one  of  the  cases,  from 
a  Greek  boy  to  his  father,  dating  back  to 
the  second  or  third  century  A.D.,  I  really  for- 
get which.  As  the  letter  was  translated  I  give 
it  to  you: 

"  Theon,  to  his  father  Theon  greeting.  It  was  a  fine 
thing  of  you  not  to  take  me  to  Alexandria.  •  •  »  » 
Mother  said  to  Archelaus,  *  It  quite  upsets  him  to  be  left 
behind.'  Send  me  a  lyre,  I  implore  you.  If  you  don't,  I 
won't  eat,  I  won't  drink.    There  now!     *     •     *    " 

Is  n't  it  human? — as  if  a  boy's  hand  had  been 
reached  out  from  that  far-off  land  and  age  to 
clasp  ours!  Dr.  Mclvor  had  seen  the  letter 
before,  but  he  was  evidently  much  touched  by 
it,  and  was  pleased  to  see  that  we  felt  as  he  did. 
Miss  Cassandra's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She 
is  such  a  sympathetic,  emotional  dear;  and 
Angela  turned  her  head  away  suspiciously  and 
said,  that  she  hoped  that  poor  boy  did  get  his 
^^lyre." 

After  our  ** strenuous  morning,"  as  Angela 
calls  it,  we  spent  the  afternoon  punting  on  the 
Isis  until  five  o'clock,  when  we  drove  down  to 
take  tea  with  Miss  Cassandra's  friend.  The 
entire  party  was  invited,  including  the  children 
to  their  great  joy,  so  we  all  donned  our  "best 
bibs  and  tuckers"  and  set  forth.  It  seems  that 
to  be  Miss  Cassandra's  friend  is  also  to  be 
^'I'ami  de  ses  amis/'  as  we  met  with  the  warm- 

226 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


est  of  welcomes  and  spent  an  hour  with  agree- 
able people  upon  a  beautiful  lawn.  The  hostess 
is  an  American,  who  lives  at  Oxford,  and  some 
English  Friends  were  of  the  party,  intelligent 
people  whom  it  was  a  great  pleasure  to  meet. 
I  was  impressed,  as  I  have  often  been  before, 
with  the  frankness  of  the  English.  Something 
was  said  about  there  being  no  women's  college 
at  Oxford,  upon  which  our  hostess  reminded  us 
that  there  are  six  halls  for  women  here  which 
we  should  see. 

I  said  that  I  had  seen  Nuneham  and  should 
like  to  see  Girton. 

''Thee  would  be  disappointed  in  Girton," 
said  one  of  the  guests,  ''if  thee  is  familiar  with 
Wellesley  and  Bryn  Mawr  Colleges  in  Amer- 
ica. Girton  does  not  compare  with  Wellesley 
in  the  beauty  of  its  surroundings,  and  the 
buildings  and  grounds  of  Bryn  Mawr  are  much 
finer. ' ' 

Now,  was  not  that  very  frank?  The  speaker 
did  not  make  this  admission  as  if  he  had  ex- 
pected to  be  contradicted  and  flattered,  and  he 
was  evidently  pleased  when  Miss  Cassandra 
and  our  hostess  agreed  with  him.  We  had  an 
animated  discussion,  over  our  tea,  about  co- 
education and  the  higher  education  of  women 
which  was  so  like  a  talk  upon  the  same  subjects 

227 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

at  home  that  we  forgot  for  the  moment  that 
we  were  not  in  the  ''States." 

Our  one  day  in  Oxford  with  Miss  Cassandra 
and  Dr.  Mclvor  was  a  brilliant  success,  and 
we  parted  from  them  both  with  infinite  regret. 

August  20th. 

Angela  says,  that  there  are  quite  too  many 
out-of-door  attractions  here  to  waste  our  time 
upon  chapels  and  halls.  She  is  more  than  half 
right  and  we  are  not  attempting  to  do  sight- 
seeing in  any  systematic  way,  as  we  have  been 
here  so  often  and  hope  to  come  again ;  and  then, 
as  Hawthorne  has  well  said,  ''it  is  a  despair  to 
see  such  a  place  for  it  would  take  a  lifetime 
and  more  than  one  to  comprehend  and  enjoy 
it  satisfactorily."  This  saying  is  really  a  com- 
fort to  Walter  and  me,  with  Oxford's  twenty- 
two  colleges  opening  their  doors  to  us,  and 
we  have  compromised  with  Angela,  beguiling 
her  to  some  chapel  or  college  in  the  morning, 
with  the  promise  of  spending  the  whole  after- 
noon out  of  doors.  Punting  on  the  river  is 
what  she  and  the  girls  like  best;  but  we  some- 
times wander  by  the  Cherwell  near  Christ 
Church  meadows,  or  cross  the  bridge  back  of 
Magdalen  and  stroll  through  Addison's  Walk, 
where  the  trees  overarch  and  we  look  out  upon 

228 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


the  river  on  one  side  and  the  deer  park  on  the 
other.  '*  Pleasant  meanders  shadowed  with 
trees,"  as  Anthony  a  Wood,  an  old  historian 
of  Oxford,  called  these  ^' water  walks,"  and 
*'as  delectable  as  the  banks  of  Erotas  where 
Apollo  himself  was  wont  to  walk  and  sing  his 
lays." 

By  one  of  the  bridges  over  the  Cherwell  is 
a  most  picturesque  old  mill  which  has  been 
modernized  into  a  dwelling-house,  and  here  are 
some  beautiful  black  swans.  You  may  believe 
that  this  is  a  very  favorite  spot,  which  Chris- 
tine and  Lisa  insist  upon  visiting  at  least  once 
every  day. 

From  all  of  this  you  will  gather  that  we  are 
leading  a  perfectly  rational  and  sensible  life, 
and  when  we  meet  parties  of  tourists  dragging 
themselves  from  hall  to  hall  and  from  quad  to 
quad,  asking  the  name  of  this  college  and  that, 
and  forgetting  it  the  next  minute,  we  naturally 
congratulate  ourselves  that  we  are  not  like 
unto  other  tourists,  even  like  unto  those  of 
Thomas  Cook. 

There  are,  of  course,  certain  old  friends  in 
one  college  or  another  that  we  must  always  see 
again,  as  the  wonderful  reredos  at  All  Souls  ^ 
with  its  many  carved  figures,  and  the  beautiful 
Sir  Joshua  window  in  the  chapel  of  New  Col- 

229 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

lege,  with  its  Nativity,  beneath  which  are  the 
exquisite  representations  of  the  Christian  vir- 
tues, the  loveliest  of  them  all  being  not  Charity, 
but  Hope,  the  perfect  aspiring  figure,  whose 
feet  barely  touch  the  earth ;  you  surely  remem- 
ber it.  And  then  we  seldom  return  from 
Christ's  or  Magdalen  without  stopping  to  see 
the  Shelley  memorial  at  University,  that  most 
exquisite  youthful  figure,  which  looks  as  if  it 
had  really  been  thrown  upon  a  rock  by  the  wild 
waves,  beautiful  as  his  own  Adonais,  and  still 
like  him,  in  death  as  in  life, 

"  a  portion  of  the  loveliness  which  once  he  made  more 
lovely." 

We  could  stay  on,  from  day  to  day  and 
from  week  to  week,  finding  each  more  inter- 
esting than  the  last,  but  Dr.  Mclvor  urged  us 
not  to  keep  Christine  here  long,  reminding  us 
of  the  old  saying  that  "Oxford  possesses 
everything  except  climate."  The  weather  is 
fairly  good,  and  not  as  hot  as  when  you  and  I 
were  here  in  July,  but  we  find  it  rather  ener- 
vating after  the  bracing  north  country  air, 
besides  which  the  calendar  admonishes  us  that 
we  shall  soon  "have  to  take  to  the  road  again," 
as  Angela  says,  if  we  are  to  have  a  fortnight 
in  Devonshire  and  Cornwall. 

230 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


Angela  writes 

August  22nd. 

Walter  and  Z.  are  off  for  the  day,  and  as 
there  may  be  no  time  for  writing  to-morrow 
I  am  finishing  Z.'s  letter.  You  must  know, 
dear  Margaret,  that  I  am  already  practising 
the  role  of  maiden  aunt,  and  when  I  found  that 
Z.  was  very  anxious  to  look  up  a  remote  an- 
cestor by  the  name  of  Jones,  who  lived  some- 
where within  twenty  miles  of  Oxford,  I  urged 
her  to  go  with  Walter  and  leave  Christine  and 
Lisa  to  my  tender  mercies.  It  seems  to  me 
something  of  a  wild-goose  chase  as  Joneses, 
like  Smiths,  are  a  trifle  hard  to  locate,  and  this 
particular  Jones  family  has  long  since  dis- 
appeared from  this  part  of  the  globe;  but  the 
house  is  said  to  be  standing,  and  Z.  hopes  to 
get  some  of  the  furniture  belonging  to  the 
family ;  exactly  how,  I  fail  to  see.  Walter,  who 
has  a  fine  sense  of  humor,  as  you  know,  sug- 
gests a  canvass  of  junk  shops  in  a  little  town 
near  Heldweal,  the  name  of  the  county-seat. 
He  is  happy,  of  course,  to  go  anywhere  with 
Z.  and  the  expedition  has  a  flavor  of  adventure 
and  the  pursuit  of  something,  no  matter  what, 
that  always  appeals  to  a  man.  This  particular 
chase  was  suggested  by  a  hatchment  that  we 

231 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

saw  hanging  in  one  of  the  quads,  with  the  iden- 
tical arms  used  by  Z.'s  American  Joneses.  I 
suppose  the  arms  are  usually  alike,  as  most  of 
them  came  from  England  in  the  first  place ;  and 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  Margaret  dear,  there  are 
so  many  of  them  here,  in  all  the  chapels,  over 
the  tombs  and  in  memorial  windows,  that  I  am 
well  sick  of  them.  Miss  Cassandra,  who  is  a 
perfect  dear  and  no  end  of  fun,  quite  agrees 
with  me.  She  says  that  ''in  the  inscriptions 
they  generally  begin  quite  piously  with  'To 
the  Glory  of  God'  and  wind  up  with  so  much 
of  the  glorification  of  the  man  and  his  family 
that  the  Lord  is  quite  lost  sight  of." 

As  the  M.D.  left  us  yesterday,  I  do  not  need 
to  be  chaperoned  and  the  children  and  I  have 
had  a  day  of  perfect  freedom  together.  Not  a 
college  or  a  chapel  have  we  entered,  not  even 
a  quad,  except  to  go  through  the  cloisters  of 
Magdalen  by  the  Founder's  Tower  to  reach 
the  old  bridge,  and  the  mill-pond  where  the 
black  swans  live.  Such  a  lovely  spot !  We  took 
our  books  and  work  and  spent  the  morning 
there,  coming  home  a  roundabout  way  by  God- 
stow  and  Folly  Bridge,  where  we  engaged  a 
boat  for  this  afternoon.  Of  course  we  were 
punting  on  the  Isis  all  the  afternoon,  which  is 
quite  the  best  thing  to  do  here. 

232 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


Having  come  in  late  for  tea,  I  have  sent 
Christine  and  Lisa  to  their  room  to  read  and 
rest  their  poor  little  legs  while  I  write  to  you. 
We  really  walk  much  more  than  we  realize  in 
this  curious  place,  where  everything  is  too  near 
to  drive  or  take  the  tram,  and  so  we  go  from 
quad  to  quad,  and  from  one  little  winding 
street  to  another,  and  usually  come  out  in 
some  unexpected  place.  I  must  tell  you  now, 
while  I  think  of  it,  that  Z.  has  quite  given  over 
trying  to  cultivate  my  sentiment  and  all  that, 
and  is  devoting  all  her  energies  to  the  children. 
This  is  really  a  great  relief  to  me  as  I  knew  all 
the  time  that  it  was  a  hopeless  task,  and  I 
doubt  her  having  any  better  success  with  the 
girls.  They  are  dears,  sweet,  perfectly  all 
right,  and  ready  to  listen  to  everything  that 
Z.  tells  them,  but  when  she  was  anxious  to 
impress  them  with  the  wonders  of  the  world, 
at  the  Abbey  and  at  the  British  Museum,  and 
all  the  other  places,  I  knew  perfectly  well  that 
they  would  rather  go  to  the  Park  to  feed  the 
swans  or  to  Fuller's  or  Gunter's  for  afternoon 
tea,  which  they  adore  as  they  always  pick  out 
their  own  cakes.  The  M.D.  suited  Z.  to  a  frac- 
tion, as  he  is  simply  chock  full  of  sentiment, 
and  spins  off  his  impossible  Scotch  yarns  by 
the  yard.    I  know  that  I  shocked  him  some- 

233 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

times,  but  it  is  a  good  thing  to  let  these  foreign- 
ers see  things  from  another  point  of  view,  as 
they  are  so  set  in  their  own  opinions.  Walter 
likes  him,  but,  all  the  same,  he  is  glad  to  take 
down  his  national  pride  a  peg  or  two,  and  he 
looked  at  me  in  high  glee  when  a  nice  English- 
man, who  had  been  in  "the  States,"  compared 
Girton  to  Bryn  Mawr  College,  to  the  great 
advantage  of  the  latter.  I  mean  the  build- 
ings and  grounds,  of  course,  and  how  sur- 
prised the  M.D.  was!  I  suppose  he  thinks  we 
have  nothing  worth  looking  at  in  Amierica.  He 
had  better  come  over  and  see. 

Z.  and  Walter  have  just  returned,  bearing 
their  spoils  with  them,  in  the  shape  of  a  tea- 
pot without  a  spout,  which  Z.  thought  had  the 
Jones  arms  on  one  side;  but  upon  closer 
examination  and  upon  comparing  it  with  her 
water-color  sketch,  she  finds  that  the  animal 
on  the  crest  is  of  a  quite  different  species.  I 
tell  her  that  it  won 't  make  any  difference  if  she 
puts  it  on  a  high  shelf,  and  if  she  turns  the 
broken  spout  to  the  wall  it  will  look  like  an 
ancient  vase.  She  was  quite  indignant,  at  first ; 
said  she  didn't  care  for  make-believes,  but  I 
think  she  will  accept  my  suggestion  as  the  tea- 
pot is  very  pretty  and  has  a  lovely  gilt  handle 
with  colors  on  it  to  match  those  in  the  arms. 

234 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


There  is  so  much  make-believe  in  all  this  arms- 
and-crest  business  in  America  that  a  little  bit, 
more  or  less,  makes  no  difference.  By  the  way, 
the  present  owners  of  Heldweal  were  out  for 
the  afternoon,  so  Z.  did  not  see  the  inside  of 
the  house,  which  was  quite  too  bad;  but  her 
natural  ardor  is  not  abated,  and  she  will  prob- 
ably ''try,  try  again"  the  next  time  she  comes 
to  Oxford. 

I  laugh  at  Z.  and  tease  her,  but  after  all  her 
belief  in  people  and  things,  and  her  joyous 
outlook  upon  life,  are  to  be  envied.  Walter 
and  I  love  her  all  the  more  for  her  little  incon- 
sequent ways;  but  we  must  get  some  fun  out 
of  them,  or  life  would  not  be  worth  living. 

We  had  hoped  to  stay  here  until  next  week, 
but  Christine  seems  to  be  losing  color  and 
strength,  the  M.D.'s  last  orders  were  not  to 
keep  her  long  in  Oxford,  so  Z.  decided  quite 
suddenly  this  evening  to  ''take  to  the  road 
to-morrow."  Our  first  plan  was  to  go  directly 
to  Minehead  or  Lynton,  but  Walter  has  been 
talking  to  our  host,  who  tells  him  that  we  will 
have  to  stage  part  of  the  journey,  as  the  rail- 
road does  not  run  all  the  way  to  these  places, 
and  as  we  have  a  lot  of  luggage  this  compli- 
cates the  situation.  After  looking  over  maps 
and  routes,  we  have  pretty  well  made  up  our 

235 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

minds  to  go  to  Ilfracombe  for  Sunday,  and 
coach  from  there  to  Lynton.  In  this  way  we 
shall  have  several  hours  at  Bath,  and  when  Z. 
suddenly  realized  how  near  Glastonbury  is  to 
Bath,  her  eyes  danced  in  a  way  that  you  and 
I  know  of  old.  *' Glastonbury,"  she  exclaimed, 
''how  I  should  love  to  see  it!"  It  is  the  very 
starting  place  of  religion  in  England. 

''There  is  no  reason,  dear,  why  we  should 
not  go  to  Glastonbury  for  a  day, ' '  said  Walter. 

"And  every  reason  why  you  should,"  said 
I.  "But  there  is  no  use  in  dragging  Christine 
and  Lisa  there.  They  are  not  old  enough  to 
care  for  the  beginnings  of  religion  or  of 
anything  else  except  the  beginning  of  a 
good  time."  Then  I  had  a  brilliant  maiden- 
aunt  idea,  which  is  to  have  Z.  and  Wal- 
ter leave  us  at  Bath  and  make  their  trip 
to  Glastonbury,  while  I  take  the  children 
to  Ilfracombe,  where  they  can  meet  us 
Saturday  night  or  Sunday.  They  demurred 
at  first  but  I  think  they  will  yield  to  my  per- 
suasions and  I  shall  come  off  with  flying  colors, 
as  a  first-class  caretaker,  while  the  two  Honey- 
mooners  go  off  on  a  journey  into  antiquity. 

It  seems  absurd  to  be  changing  all  our  plans 
on  account  of  luggage,  which  is  such  a  bother 
over  here;  and  how  tragic  it  is  to  see  our 

236 


STORIED  WINDOWS 


trunks,  with  all  our  worldly  goods  in  them, 
started  off  on  a  van,  with  nothing  on  earth  to 
show  for  them  but  two  inches  of  paper  with 
something  scrawled  on  it  that  you  can  never 
quite  make  out!  I  generally  lose  mine,  but 
although  the  "boxes"  are  often  mislaid  for  a 
day,  as  mine  were  on  the  way  to  York,  they 
generally  **bob  up  serenely"  sometime  and 
somewhere.  It  never  seems  quite  possible  to 
lose  them. 

A  propos  of  trunks  I  must  tell  you  about  a 
pet  bit  of  hand  luggage  that  Z.  insists  upon 
carrying  about  with  her.  The  only  one  of  the 
really  smart  gowns  belonging  to  her  trousseau 
that  she  has  with  her  is  a  perfect  dream,  in 
mauve  cloth  and  chiffon,  which  she  carries 
about  with  her  in  a  big  box,  and  for  some  rea- 
son, best  known  to  herself,  she  will  not  let  any 
one  else  touch  the  ark,  as  Walter  and  I  call  it. 
After  wearing  this  costume  in  London  for  the 
first  time  at  a  garden  party,  and  afterwards 
at  a  musical  tea,  we  thought  that  Z.  would  be 
willing  to  put  it  in  her  trunk,  but  instead  she 
appeared  carrying  the  ark  when  we  left  Lon- 
don for  Oxford.  Just  how  it  was  overlooked  I 
don't  know,  but  after  we  were  all  comfortably 
settled  in  the  boat  at  Wallingford,  Z.  exclaimed, 
' '  My  box !    What  shall  I  do  ?  "    Of  course  Wal- 

237 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

ter  begged  or  bribed  the  captain  to  wait  until 
he  ran  back  to  The  Lamb  where  we  had 
lunched.  When  he  appeared,  a  few  minutes 
later  hot  and  out  of  breath  with  the  precious 
ark  in  his  arms,  I  thought  that  like  most  men 
he  would  indulge  in  some  sarcastic  or  disagree- 
able remarks,  and  had  begun  to  look  forward 
to  the  excitement  of  a  lovers'  quarrel,  instead 
of  which  Walter  placed  the  box  alongside  of 
Z.,  saying,  ''After  this,  dear,  I  shall  have  to 
take  charge  of  the  ark  myself,  as  I  was  really 
afraid  that  I  should  never  again  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  in  that  charming  costume." 
If  any  one  else  had  said  that  it  would  have  been 
heaping  coals  of  fire  on  poor  Z.'s  head,  but 
with  Walter's  pleasant  manner  the  words  had 
no  sting  back  of  them.  Isn't  he  a  lamb?  I 
suppose  you  will  tell  me  that  Allan  is  just  such 
another;  but  I  can  assure  you  that  the  M.D. 
was  a  bit  surprised.  He  looked  several  inter- 
rogation points  at  me,  and  when  he  had  an 
opportunity  he  asked  me  whether  '  *  all  American 
husbands  were  as  amiable  as  Mr.  Leonard?" 
I  said  yes,  of  course,  with  a  few  exceptions 
just  to  prove  the  rule,  for  which  slight  inac- 
curacy I  hope  I  may  be  forgiven ! 

Z.  had  her  innings  when  we  went  to  take  tea 
with  Miss  Cassandra,  as  she  looked  "perfectly 

238 


STORIED   WINDOWS 


ripping,"  as  the  English  girls  say,  in  her  res- 
cued gown.  The  children  danced  about  her  in 
delight,  and  Walter  was  so  frankly  proud  of  her 
appearance  that  I  told  him  it  was  not  quite 
comme  il  faut  for  a  man  to  admire  his  own 
wife  so  much.  My  simple  little  Paris  con- 
fection in  greens  and  browns  was  quite  thrown 
into  the  shade,  although  Z.,  who  being  on  top, 
could  aiford  to  be  generous,  assured  me  that 
my  costume  was  charming  and  very  becoming. 
Miss  Cassandra,  who  met  us  on  the  steps, 
held  Z.  at  arm's  length  and  turned  her  around, 
for  all  the  world  as  if  she  had  been  a  Dresden 
china  shepherdess,  exclaiming,  ''Thee  should 
always  wear  that  shade,  my  beauty  bright,  thee 
is  so  perfectly  lovely  in  it ! "  Now  was  not  that 
refreshingly  worldly?  I  really  think  that  it  is 
this  dear  Quaker  lady's  innocent  worldliness 
that  makes  her  so  irresistible. 


X 

GLASTONBURY'S  SHRINE 


The  George, 
Glastonbury,  Au^st  23rd. 

You  will  be  wandering,  dearest  Margaret, 
how  we  happen  to  be  in  this  old  town;  but 
perhaps  Angela  told  you  in  her  letter  that  she 
offered  to  take  the  children  on  to  Ilfracombe,  so 
I  shall  waste  no  time  in  making  explanations, 
as  I  must  give  you  the  impressions  of  this  per- 
fectly thrilling  day,  while  everything  is  fresh 
in  my  mind. 

We  came  by  way  of  Bath,  a  pleasant  journey 
of  about  two  hours  from  Oxford,  through  a 
level  but  not  unattractive  country,  which  re- 
minded us  of  Holland,  by  reason  of  its  flatness 
and  many  small  streams,  some  of  them  like 
canals  or  dykes. 

There  being  a  stop  over  of  several  hours 
in  Bath,  for  all  of  us,  we  had  time  to  go  through 
the  Eoman  baths,  above  ground  and  beneath. 
You  and  Allan  are  doubtless  seeing  the  great 
baths  in  Eome,  but  even  so,  you  could  not  fail 

240 


GLASTONBURY'S   SHRINE 


to  be  interested  in  this  early  Koman  trans- 
planting at  Bath.  The  subterranean  bathrooms 
are  supplied  with  water  by  huge  pipes  and 
heated  with  blocks  of  hot  iron,  or  by  having  a 
fire  underneath  the  metal  floor.  The  very  com- 
fortable arrangements  in  the  many  private 
bathrooms  made  us  realize,  once  more,  what 
luxuries  the  Romans  brought  into  Britain, — 
such  luxury  as  only  the  privileged  few  enjoy 
to-day,  while  among  the  Romans  there  were 
baths  for  all  classes.  Above  the  great  swim- 
ming-pool, there  is  what  they  call  a  Roman 
terrace,  or  open  gallery,  which  is  adorned  with 
colossal  statues  of  Caesar,  Hadrian,  Suetonius, 
and  many  of  ''the  great  of  old."  Along  the 
sides  of  this  pool,  and  i^  many  other  places, 
are  piled  up  bits  of  fine  carving,  broken 
columns  and  beautiful  capitals  which  have  been 
excavated  within  the  last  twenty  years.  Wal- 
ter was  quite  in  his  element  among  these 
Roman  antiquities,  and  has  been  wishing  for 
Dr.  Mclvor  to  explain  some  things  to  him. 
When  we  passed  into  the  Pump  Room  British 
associations  overpowered  the  Roman,  and  An- 
gela and  I  wished  for  you  in  this  place,  where 
so  many  of  our  old  friends  in  literature  were 
wont  to  congregate.  They  tell  us  that  this 
assembly-room  is  very  little  changed  since  the 
m  241 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

days  when  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Dr.  Johnson, 
Boswell,  Horace  Walpole,  and  all  the  great 
writers  and  talkers  used  to  come  here  to  drink 
from  the  queer  little  fountain  and  to  gossip 
endlessly,  as  people  were  wont  to  do  in  those 
good  old  days,  before  railroads,  telephones, 
and  automobiles  had  quickened  the  pace  of  life 
from  the  gentle  amble  of  Miss  Austen's  novels 
to  the  breakneck  speed  of  our  own  time. 

Miss  Burney  came  here  with  Queen  Char- 
lotte, who  held  her  court  at  Bath,  and  here 
again  the  authoress  of  Evelina  came  as  Madame 
D'Arblay  with  a  number  of  French  emigres. 

Except  for  the  Roman  remains,  and  the 
Cathedral,  this  old  city  is  interesting  only  from 
its  associations,  as  it  is  little  frequented  to-day. 
A  few  persons  were  drinking  the  mineral  water, 
which  flows  from  a  fountain  presided  over  by 
the  figure  of  an  angel  supposed  to  be  made  in 
the  likeness  of  the  one  who  stirred  the  waters 
of  Bethesda.  The  water  is  served  hot  in  glasses 
set  in  odd  little  basins.  We  amused  ourselves 
seeing  the  other  people  make  wry  faces  over 
their  nauseous  hot  drink,  and  were  not  tempted 
to  try  it  ourselves. 

The  Cathedral,  which  is  quite  handsome,  has 
a  richly-carved  west  front,  with  ladders  upon 
which  a  number  of  armless,  legless,  and  some- 

242 


GLASTONBURY'S  SHRINE 


times  wingless,  stone  angels  are  climbing. 
''Just  like  the  angels  in  Jacob's  Dream," 
Christine  says,  and  as  it  happens  this  remark- 
able decoration  was  suggested  by  the  dream  of 
Bishop  Oliver  King,  who  rebuilt  the  Cathedral. 
The  effect  of  these  poor,  maimed  little  angels, 
climbing  up  and  down  continually,  is  odd,  and 
almost  painful,  as  one  feels  sorry  for  their 
poor  little  tired  legs.  These  angels  really  seem 
to  have  been  furnished  with  legs  at  the  begin- 
ning, but,  like  most  of  the  carving  of  the  Cathe- 
dral, much  of  the  west  front  is  broken  and 
worn,  either  from  the  softness  of  the  stone 
or  the  extreme  dampness  of  the  climate. 

Inside  the  Cathedral  we  found  a  number  of 
interesting  monuments,  and  inscriptions,  among 
the  latter  one  to  Lady  Waller,  wife  of  the  Par- 
liamentary General  Waller,  which  is  so  odd, 
with  its  enigmatical  play  upon  words,  that 
Walter  has  copied  it  for  you: 

"  To  the  Deare  Memory  of  the  right  virtuous  and  worthy 
Lady  Jane,  Lady  Waller. 

In  graces  great  in  stature  small, 
As  full  of  spirit  as  void  of  gall, 
Cheerfully  grave  bounteously  close 
Happy  and  yet  from  envy  free 
Learned  without  pride,  witty  yet  wise, 
Reader  this  riddle  read  for  me 
Here  the  good  Lady  Waller  lyes," 
243 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

At  the  booking  office  in  Bath  Walter  made 
inquiries  about  trains  for  our  different  routes, 
and  found  that  we  had  been  quite  misinformed, 
as  trains  do  run  directly  to  Lynton.  We  have 
added  another  don't  to  our  already  quite  long 
list.  Don't  trust  your  landlord  "however 
pleasant"  but  go  to  fountain  head,  the  booking 
office  or  the  Bradshaw.  And  even  then  *' don't 
be  any  too  sure,"  Walter  adds.  However,  we 
are  not  disposed  to  quarrel  with  our  host  of  the 
Grilling,  as  by  changing  our  plans  we  have 
gained  the  inexpressible  pleasure  of  a  long 
afternoon  in  Glastonbury. 

Not  knowing  anything  about  accommoda- 
tions in  this  old  town,  we  expected  to  go  to 
Wells  for  the  night,  and  spend  Saturday  in 
Glastonbury.  But  as  luck  would  have  it,  we 
fell  into  conversation  with  an  English  lady  en 
route,  who  told  us  of  this  George  Inn,  which 
she  recommended  highly.  We  are  now  doing 
the  thing  of  all  others  which  we  longed  to  do, 
spending  the  night  here  and  having  a  long 
afternoon  and  evening  among  the  wonderful 
associations  of  this  place,  which  is  the  only  way 
to  enjoy  them.  Could  anything  be  more  ap- 
propriate than  to  be  stopping  here  at  a  pil- 
grims* inn?  The  George,  which  dates  back 
to  1456,  is  on  High  Street  near  the  Market 

244 


GLASTONBURY'S   SHRINE 


Cross  and  not  far  from  the  Abbey.  Over  the 
handsome  carved  gateway  are  the  arms  of 
Edward  IV  and  those  of  the  great  Abbey  of 
St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul.  The  house  is  full  of 
quaint  nooks  and  corners,  and  in  the  cellar  and 
dungeons  beneath  are  more  weird  and  grew- 
some  relics  of  the  old  monastic  life  than  we 
care  to  see. 

After  the  train  left  Shepton  Mallet  we  had 
our  first  glimpse  of  the  great  tor,  across  green 
lowlands  dotted  with  elms  and  beeches,  where 
many  sheep  were  grazing.  A  sudden  curve  in 
the  road  revealed  the  rounded  Tor  Hill,  which 
rises  so  unexpectedly  from  the  dead  level  of 
the  plain  that  its  appearance  is  almost  start- 
ling. In  its  evenness  and  symmetry  it  suggests 
a  fortress  built  by  the  primitive  man  for  the 
protection  of  this  fair  valley,  but  upon  a  closer 
view  we  found  that  only  the  gray  tower  that 
crowns  the  tor  is  man-made.  The  hill  itself 
is  like  a  number  of  others  in  this  neighborhood 
which  rise  abruptly  from  the  level,  as  if  thrown 
up  by  the  action  of  subterranean  forces,  which, 
as  Walter  reminds  me,  is  the  usual  method  of 
making  a  hill.  But  there  really  is  something 
about  these  tors  quite  different  from  ordinary 
hills.  Walter  calls  them  **  bumps  on  the  flat 
surface  of  the  plain,'*  which  is  not  a  bad  de- 

245 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

scription  as  they  are  so  smooth  and  round,  and 
as  he  says,  "are  quite  unexpected,  in  which 
they  also  resemble  bumps." 

Winding  around  and  around,  beside  green 
meadows  and  silver  streams,  the  train  came 
suddenly  into  a  little  station  which  stands  quite 
high  and  commands  a  view  of  the  town  of 
Glastonbury  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  tower- 
crowned  tor. 

This  lovely  valley,  once  an  island  and  called 
"the  mystic  Isle  of  Avalon"  from  aval,  Welsh 
for  the  apple  which  grew  here  spontaneously, 
is  Tennyson's 

"  Island  valley  of  Avilion, 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly,  but  it  lies, 
Deep  meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns, 
And  bowery  hollows,  crowned  with  summer  sea." 

Our  great  tor  is  called  Tor  Chalice,  because 
here,  according  to  many  authorities,  was 
buried  the  Holy  Grail,  which  "Arimathean 
Joseph  brought  to  Glastonbury,"  or  as  some 
of  the  old  books  call  him,  "Joseph  of 
Abarimacie. ' ' 

On  another  tor  not  far  away,  called  Weary- 
All  Hill,  was  planted  the  winter  thorn  which 
blossoms  at  Christmas  time.  The  main  stalk 
of  this  tree  was  cut  down  by  a  Puritan  fanatic ; 

246 


GLASTONBURY'S  SHRINE 


but  a  number  of  offshoots  are  to  be  found  in 
different  parts  of  the  town,  which  they  tell  us 
still 

"  blossom   at   Christmas,   mindful   of   our   Lord." 

The  history  of  Glastonbury  is  so  wound 
round  and  about  with  threads  of  religion,  ro- 
mance, and  tradition,  and  reaches  back  to  such 
remote  antiquity,  that  it  is  more  difficult  than 
in  most  places  to  know  what  to  believe  and 
what  to  reject.  Indeed,  I  confess  that  I  am 
rapidly  reaching  our  Assisian  point  of  view, 
and  unless  Walter  holds  me  back  by  his  saving 
common  sense  I  shall  end  by  believing  every- 
thing that  is  told  me. 

We  found  a  little  book  at  one  of  the  shops 
which  gives  some  links  in  a  chain  of  evidence 
that  seemed,  at  a  first  glance,  purely  mythical. 
The  legend  is  that  Joseph  of  Arimathea  set 
forth  from  Palestine  for  Britain  directly  after 
the  crucifixion  of  his  Lord,  bearing  with  him  the 
sacred  chalice.  The  journey  of  the  holy  pil- 
grims, for  Joseph  was  attended  by  his  son  and 
some  missionaries,  twelve  in  all,  has  been 
traced  step  by  step,  and  was  by  a  route  used  be- 
fore the  time  of  Joseph.  By  sea  the  pilgrims 
journeyed  to  Marseilles,  thence  to  the  ancient 
city  of  Aries,  across  Gaul,  in  thirty  days,  and 

247 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

from  Brittany  across  the  Channel,  in  four  days, 
to  Cornwall,  the  ancient  Lyonesse.  It  all 
seems  quite  reasonable,  as  the  tin  mines  of 
Cornwall  brought  traders  here  from  all  parts 
of  the  known  world.  The  story  runs  that 
Joseph  of  Arimathea  brought  some  material 
and  practical  benefit  to  the  Cornwall  miners, 
as  he  taught  them  how  "to  extract  the  tin  and 
purge  it  of  its  wolfram.'*  Mr.  Baring-Gould, 
in  writing  about  Cornwall,  speaks  of  a  curious 
custom  that  has  come  down  to  later  times.  He 
says  that  ''when  the  tin  is  flashed  the  tinner 
shouts,  'Joseph  was  in  the  tin  trade!'"  I 
give  you  the  tale  as  it  has  come  to  us.  We  both 
thought  of  you  and  Allan,  and  wished  for  you, 
when  we  paid  our  material  English  sixpences 
at  the  little  wicket  entrance  gate,  and  stood  in 
the  Abbey  grounds  surrounded  by  the  vast 
ruins  and  the  eloquent  silences  of  centuries. 
There  are  ruins  and  ruins.  You  and  I  have 
seen  many  in  Italy  and  in  this  England.  The 
lovely  ruins  of  the  Priory  of  St.  Augustine  at 
Canterbury  awed  me  by  their  beauty  and  an- 
tiquity, but  here  are  the  remains  of  a  church 
whose  foundations  antedate  the  coming  of 
Christianity  to  Kent,  by  several  centuries. 
Whether  or  not  we  believe  that  St.  Joseph  built 
his  church  of  wattles  in  the  first  century,  St. 

248 


GLASTONBURY'S   SHRINE 


Patrick  came  to  Glastonbury  about  the  middle 
of  the  fifth  and  became  its  first  abbot.  No 
less  authority  than  Professor  Freeman  wrote 
of  this  Abbey:  "The  ancient  church  of  wood 
or  wicker,  which  legend  spoke  of  as  the  first 
temple  reared  on  British  soil  to  the  honor  of 
Christ,  was  preserved  as  a  hallowed  relic,  even 
after  a  greater  church  of  stone  was  built  by 
Dunstan  to  the  east  of  it.  Nowhere  else,  among 
all  the  churches  of  England,  can  we  find  one 
that  can  trace  up  its  uninterrupted  being  to 
days  before  the  Teuton  had  set  foot  upon 
English  soil.  The  legendary  burial  place  of 
Arthur,  the  real  burying  place  of  Edgar  and 
the  two  Edmunds,  stands  alone  among  English 
minsters  as  the  one  link  which  really  does  bind 
us  to  the  ancient  church  of  the  Briton  and  the 
Roman." 

We  walked  around  and  through  the  beautiful 
ruin,  with  its  nave  almost  as  long  as  that  of 
"Winchester  Cathedral,  its  transeptal  chapels, 
its  lofty  arches  partly  Norman  and  partly 
Gothic,  and  altogether  noble  and  inspiring,  and 
its  beautiful  Lady-Chapel,  which  we  left  to  the 
last,  as  the  most  perfect  of  all.  This  Lady- 
Chapel,  which  is  also  called  the  Chapel  of  St. 
Joseph,  is  built  over  the  original  church  of 
wattles,  the  **  vetusta  eoclesia,"  and  is  rich 

249 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

in  carvings  of  saints,  angels  and  armed  knights, 
with  flowers  and  leaves  and  birds  and  beasts 
interwoven  between  the  figures.  On  the  north 
door  is  the  story  of  the  Three  Kings,  the 
Massacre  of  the  Innocents,  and  ever  so  many 
other  Scripture  scenes,  all  exquisitely  carved 
in  the  stone.  Over  some  of  the  arches  there 
is  Norman  toothing,  and  over  others  graceful 
arabesque  designs.  It  is  so  beautiful  even  in 
its  ruinous  state,  that  I  can  find  no  words  in 
which  to  describe  this  Chapel,  which  Professor 
Freeman  calls  the  ''loveliest  building  that 
Glastonbury  can  show,  the  jewel  of  the  Late 
Romanesque  on  a  small  scale.'* 

We  have  not  met  one  American  tourist  here 
and  only  a  few  English  people.  It  is  strange 
that  so  few  travellers  find  their  way  to  Glaston- 
bury, when  it  is  a  place  of  so  much  beauty  and 
interest,  for,  aside  from  its  associations  with 
the  beginnings  of  Christianity  in  Great  Britain, 
here  it  was,  according  to  many  an  ancient  tale, 
that  King  Arthur  was  buried.  In  "The  High 
History  of  the  Holy  Grail"  it  is  related  that 
Lancelot  came  to  this  *'  rich,  fair  chapel,"  and 
asked  whose  were  the  ''two  coffins  covered  with 
polls,"  and  that  one  of  the  hermits  told  him 
that  Queen  Guinevere  lay  in  one,  and  the  one 
beside  her  was  for  King  Arthur  as  "the  Queen 

250 


GLASTONBURY'S   SHRINE 


bade  at  her  death  that  his  body  should  be  set 
beside  her  own  when  he  shall  end.  Hereof 
have  we  the  letters  and  her  seal  in  this  chapel, 
and  this  place  made  she  be  builded  new  on  this 
wise  or  ever  she  died." 

The  Abbot's  Kitchen,  an  eight-sided  building, 
most  interesting  in  its  architecture,  with  sub- 
stantial buttresses  and  a  double  turret  or  a 
lantern  on  top,  lies  south  of  the  Abbey.  This 
kitchen,  which  is  in  perfect  preservation,  was 
beside  the  great  refectory  where  a  generous 
hospitality  was  exercised  by  the  Glastonbury 
brothers. 

After  leaving  the  Abbey,  we  made  our  way 
through  many  streets  to  the  foot  of  the  great 
tor,  whither  we  were  conducted  by  a  pretty  lit- 
tle girl  about  Lisa's  age,  who  took  great 
pleasure  in  showing  us  the  way  through  a 
hedge-bordered  lane  and  a  little  gate.  From 
Tor  Chalice  or  Tor  Hill  there  is  a  fine  view  of 
the  Bristol  channel,  the  Mendip  Hills  and  Wells 
Cathedral,  only  fiv«  miles  away,  which  we  ex- 
pect to  see  to-morrow.  In  the  gray  tower,  on 
top  of  the  hill,  which  is  really  a  pilgrims* 
chapel,  the  last  Abbot  of  Glastonbury,  Richard 
Whiting,  was  dragged  on  a  hurdle  and  hanged, 
because,  as  Walter  expresses  it,  ''he  could  not 
make  his  churchmanship  and  morals   square 

261 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

with  those  of  his  royal  master.'*  It  was  this 
same  royal  master,  Henry  VIII,  who  despoiled 
the  Abbey  of  its  treasures  and  destroyed  so 
much  of  its  beauty.  Our  little  guide,  who  was 
most  friendly,  waited  for  us,  followed  us  down 
the  steep  hill- side,  and  even  after  we  had  given 
her  some  pennies  refused  to  desert  us  until 
she  had  started  us  upon  the  shortest  route  to 
the  George.  Part  of  our  way  lay  by  a  hill-side 
street,  after  which  we  turned  into  what  is  evi- 
dently the  Petticoat  Lane  of  Glastonbury.  A 
very  poor  little  street  it  is,  with  wretched- 
looking  people  about  the  door-ways;  and  yet 
here,  as  everywhere  in  rural  England,  many 
flowers,  gorgeous  fuchsias  and  geraniums,  were 
blooming  in  the  small  front  yards,  and  through 
the  open  doors  of  the  miserable  houses  we 
could  see  tidy  little  kitchen  gardens  beyond. 

At  the  corner  of  Beere  Lane  and  Chilkwell 
Street  we  passed  the  Abbey  bam,  which  is  of 
great  size,  cruciform,  with  symbolic  carvings 
over  the  windows  and  doors.  Over  the  great 
entrance  is  the  winged  ox  of  Saint  Mark,  which 
seems  a  particularly  appropriate  decoration 
for  a  barn. 

At  the  George  they  very  considerately  serve 
dinner  at  a  late  hour,  and  after  what  seemed 
like  a  whole  evening  on  the  tor,  and  along  Chilk- 

252 


GLASTONBURY'S  SIIRTNE 


well  Street,  we  still  had  time  to  make  some 
changes  in  our  costume  before  going  in  to  din- 
ner. From  an  afternoon  spent  entirely  in  the 
past,  filled  with  associations  of  St.  Joseph  and 
the  good  brothers  of  the  Abbey,  the  transition 
to  a  well-lighted  dining-room,  and  a  flower- 
bedecked  table  with  handsome  modern  appoint- 
ments, was  something  of  a  surprise  to  us.  As 
if  to  accentuate  the  modern  note  in  this  ancient 
hostelry,  we  were  told  that  it  had  been  restored 
and  modernized,  in  consequence  of  the  many 
auto-tourists  who  come  this  way  from  Torquay, 
Penzance,  and  other  points  upon  the  coast.  We 
were  quite  hungry  enough,  after  our  long  walk, 
to  enjoy  the  excellent  dinner  that  was  served 
us.  At  the  table  were  several  parties  of  Eng- 
lish people,  among  them  a  handsome  dark-eyed 
bride  who  seemed  as  eager  to  know  all  about 
Glastonbury  as  we  were.  Walter  had  the 
pleasure  of  sitting  next  to  this  lady,  whose 
name  we  do  not  know  and  may  never  know, 
but  she  and  her  husband  will  always  stand  for 
us  as  types  of  the  very  best  English  people,  of 
the  sort  that  one  is  more  likely  to  meet  on  the 
continent  that  at  home.  They  were  intelligent, 
courteous,  and  ''perfectly  all  right,"  as  Walter 
says,  "like  the  very  best  sort  of  Americans!" 
I  fancy  that  the  best  sort  are  much  alike  the 
world  over. 

253 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

Opposite  to  us  were  ''Dr.  and  Mrs.  Proudie" 
in  the  flesh,  the  lady  in  quite  a  considerable 
amount  of  it,  the  gentleman  smaller  and  much 
milder  in  appearance  that  Tro Hope's  bishop, 
but,  like  him,  somewhat  obscured  by  his  wife's 
robust  and  commanding  personality.  The  ar- 
rangement of  Mrs.  Proudie's  hair  was  of  an 
ingenuity  and  hideousness  that  made  me  long 
to  have  Angela  at  hand  to  make  a  sketch  of  it 
for  you.  A  flat  band  of  the  back  hair,  which  is 
iron  gray,  was  brought  forward  to  do  duty 
above  the  massive  domelike  brow  of  the  lady, 
making  a  severe  frame  for  a  face  of  uncompro- 
mising stolidity.  What  happened  in  the  back 
did  not  transpire,  as  a  friendly  cap  covered 
all  deficiencies. 

After  Mrs.  Proudie  had  left  the  table  the 
bride,  with  whom  we  had  already  exchanged 
some  civilities,  remarked  in  the  tone  in  which 
some  people  repeat  the  litany,  *'If  ever  I  lose 
my  front  hair,  I  trust  that  I  shall  never  be 
tempted  to  do  that ! ' ' 

*'Do  what?"  asked  Walter.  "  'Eob  Peter  to 
pay  Paul'?" 

This  simile  so  amused  the  young  couple,  that 
we  were  soon  chatting  away  together  quite 
merrily.  When  I  heard  the  English  gentleman 
telling  Walter  that  an  ancient  lake  village  had 

254 


GLASTONBURY'S   SHRINE 


been  discovered  near  Glastonbury,  within  a  few 
years,  and  that  a  number  of  interesting  articles 
that  had  been  excavated  were  to  be  found  in  a 
museum  around  the  corner,  I  began  to  tremble 
for  my  chance  of  seeing  Wells  Cathedral 
to-morrow. 

''We  shall  have  to  make  an  early  start,"  I 
said,  "in  order  to  see  the  museum  before  we 
take  the  train  for  Wells." 

''The  museum  does  not  open  until  ten 
o'clock,"  said  the  bride,  as  if  that  quite  settled 
the  matter. 

"We  shall  have  to  ask  them  to  open  it  an 
hour  earlier,"  said  Walter,  at  which  the  bride 
and  groom  looked  at  us  in  surprise,  as  if  we 
belonged  to  a  different  species,  or  had  proposed 
to  make  some  change  in  the  Prayer  Book. 
These  dear,  good  English  people  seem  to  think 
that  things  must  continue  as  they  are,  because 
they  have  lasted  so  long  according  to  an  estab- 
lished order. 

We  afterward  met  "Dr.  and  Mrs.  Proudie" 
in  the  drawing-room.  The  latter  proved  to  be 
an  amiable  giantess,  must  addicted  to  knitting. 
By  some  curious  anachronism,  this  ancient 
couple  had  come  to  Glastonbury  in  an  automo- 
bile, in  which  modern  vehicle  they  are  exploring 
many  resorts  on  the  Devonshire  coast.    "Dr. 

255 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

Proudie"  gave  us  valuable  information  with 
regard  to  Minehead,  Tintagel,  and  other  places, 
and  quite  won  "Walter's  affections  by  telling 
him  of  Roman  and  British  camps  near  Lynton 
and  Brendon. 

Taunton,  August  24th, 

I  am  writing  you  a  line,  while  we  wait  for 
our  train  at  this  place,  which  does  not  appear 
to  be  particularly  interesting  although  it  has 
an  eighth-century  castle,  and  its  Archaeological 
Museum,  which  Walter  is  now  exploring,  may 
contain  treasure  untold. 

A  propos  of  museums  you  may  be  interested 
to  know  that  we  accomplished  our  purpose  this 
morning.  Walter  inquired  the  way  to  the  jani- 
tor's house,  and  found  him  ready  and  willing 
to  open  his  museum  for  us  at  any  time  that 
suited  us.  I  was  sitting  on  the  museum  steps 
waiting  for  him,  when  the  bride  and  groom 
appeared.  They  looked  amused,  of  course,  and 
decidedly  incredulous;  but  ''he  laughs  best  who 
laughs  last,"  and  my  turn  came  when  Walter, 
and  the  janitor  with  the  keys,  emerged  from 
the  arch  of  the  Red  Lion  Tnn  near  by. 

There  are  quite  a  number  of  interesting  ar- 
ticles in  this  collection,  some  implements  of 
husbandry,  and  hammers  and  saws,  but  I  was 
most  interested  in  some  finely  decorated  pot- 

256 


GLASTONBURY'S   SHRINE 


tery,  which  looked  as  if  it  might  have  come 
from  Egypt  or  Assyria,  and  in  a  handsome 
bronze  bowl,  with  a  repousse  design  upon  the 
sides. 

We  enjoyed  our  short  journey  to  Wells  with 
our  new  acquaintances  and  went  through  the 
Cathedral  with  them.  They  will,  I  am  sure, 
always  speak  of  us  as  those  enterprising 
Americans. 

Here  comes  Walter  to  warn  me  that  our  train 
starts  in  fifteen  minutes,  which  gives  me  no  time 
to  tell  you  of  the  beauty  of  Wells  Cathedral, 
which  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  archi- 
tecturally that  we  have  seen,  with  its  richly- 
decorated  west  front  and  its  Chapter  House 
connected  by  a  curious  gallery  or  bridge  with 
the  Vicar's  close.  The  close  itself  is  a  lovely 
spot,  where  there  are  charming  little  cottages 
in  which  the  students  of  the  Theological  Col- 
lege live  in  term  time.  We  have  picked  out  one 
which  we  will  occupy  when  we  come  here  to 
spend  "a  week  away  from  time."  Wells  is  a 
place  where  one  should  live,  in  order  to  appre- 
ciate all  the  beauty  of  detail  in  the  Cathedral, 
where  the  clustered  columns,  carvings,  gar- 
goyles and  fan  vaultings  are  exquisite.  The 
surroundings,  too,  are  most  alluring,  for  here 
is  a  lovely  garden  with  an  embattled  wall  and 

17  257 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

an  ancient  moat.  We  have  seen  so  many  dried- 
up  moats,  bridged  over  and  ''off  duty,"  as 
Walter  says,  that  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  see  one 
with  water  in  it.  Upon  this  moat,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  castle  wall,  swans  are  floating 
which  are  so  intelligent  that  they  pull  a  bell- 
rope  when  they  want  their  dinner.  This  bell- 
rope,  which  connects  in  some  way  with  the 
kitchen,  the  swans  were  pulling  when  we  walked 
by  the  moat. 

I  am  mailing  this  letter  here,  and  will  write 
you  again  from  Ilfracombe.  We  heard  from 
Archie,  before  we  left  Oxford.  He  tells  us  he 
has  extended  his  vacation,  in  order  to  have  a 
week  in  Vienna  with  some  M.D.'s,and  now  holds 
out  a  prospect  of  meeting  us  in  Paris  in 
September. 


XI 

'THE  LAND   OF  LORNA  DOONE" 


Ilfracombe,  Sunday,  August  25tli. 

It  was  quite  late  when  we  reached  Ilfracombe 
last  night  and  after  driving  np  a  long  steep  hill 
to  a  hotel  on  the  cliffs,  to  which  we  had  wired 
for  rooms,  we  found  a  note  from  Angela  saying 
there  were  no  accommodations  to  be  had  in  this 
most  desirable  place.  With  much  reluctance 
we  left  this  pleasantly-situated  inn  with  its 
queer  name,  the  Cliff  Hydro,  and  drove  down 
into  the  town  to  an  address  that  Angela  had 
left  for  us.  Here  our  three  graces  were 
anxiously  awaiting  us,  the  girls  full  of  their 
doings  with  Angela,  driving,  walking,  and  hav- 
ing tea  at  a  little  cottage  upon  the  rocks,  after- 
noon tea  being  an  important  part  of  the  day's 
amusements. 

This  place  is  all  up  and  down  hill,  the  streets 
being  as  steep  as  those  at  Glastonbury.  You 
would  have  been  amused  if  you  had  seen  us 
going  to  church  this  morning,  winding  round 
and  round  the  hill-side  paths  to  a  quite  large 

259 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

church  on  the  tip  top,  which  was  so  full  that  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  we  found  seats.  These 
good  church-goers  are  most  of  them  hard- 
working people,  clerks,  and  small  shopkeepers, 
who  have  come  here  for  their  summer  vacation 
as  Ilfracombe  abounds  in  cheap  boarding- 
houses.  At  the  Casino  and  its  garden,  last 
night,  we  were  reminded  of  Atlantic  City  and 
Asbury  Park,  so  great  was  the  crowd  of  pleas- 
ure-seekers and  so  varied  the  amusements 
offered  them. 

Ilfracombe  has  much  natural  beauty,  like  all 
of  the  resorts  on  the  Devonshire  coast,  with 
its  bold  headlands  reaching  out  into  the  sea  and 
its  picturesque  Tors  Walk,  which  is  the  fashion- 
able promenade  of  the  town.  They  seem  to  call 
all  their  hills  'Hors"  here,  but  none  of  them 
is  equal  to  our  Tor  Chalice  at  Glastonbury, 
to  which  my  thoughts  turn  back  with  real 
affection,  as  to  something  that  I  have  known 
and  loved  for  years. 

We  are  glad  to  see  this  place,  as  we  have 
heard  so  much  of  it,  and  for  another  and  less 
flattering  reason,  which  is  that  we  may  in  future 
avoid  it  in  this  crowded  holiday  season. 

After  our  mid-day  dinner,  we  held  a  council 
of  war  with  regard  to  our  next  move,  as  Angela 
is  out  of  sorts  with  this  place,  and  we  are  none 

260 


"THE   LAND   OF   LORNA  DOONE" 

of  us  particularly  charmed  with  it,  especially 
as  the  people  in  the  hotel  seem  to  have  an 
objection  to  Americans,  and  treat  us,  as  she 
says,  like  ' '  Jews,  infidels  and  heretics. "  "  Why 
try  another  Devonshire  sea-side  place?"  she 
asks.  ''They  will  all  be  crowded  like  Ilfra- 
combe. ' ' 

This  is  not  at  all  like  Angela,  as  you  know 
that  she  is  usually  eager  to  see  new  places,  and 
thinks  each  one  more  delightful  than  the  last. 
What  has  come  over  her?  She  is  so  variable, 
in  the  gayest  mood  one  moment  and  quite  dull 
and  spiritless  the  next.  When  I  said  something 
to  Walter  about  this,  and  wondered  whether 
Angela  was  missing  Ludovico,  who  she  tells  me 
went  with  the  Haldanes  all  the  way  to  Carls- 
bad, and  stopped  there  for  a  week,  he  laughed 
and  said,  ''How  about  the  long-legged  Scotch- 
man? He  is  the  suitor  who  would  have  my 
sympathy,  if  I  happened  to  be,  like  you,  in  the 
match-making  line." 

*'Dr.  Mclvor!"  I  exclaimed.  "Of  course  he 
admires  Angela,  but  he  would  never  do  for 
her." 

"Why  not,  Zelphine?" 

"Oh,  because  he  is  so  plain  looking  with  his 
sandy  hair  and  his  school-boy  ways." 

"Ian  Mclvor  may  not  be  an  Adonis;  but  he 

261 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYIVIOON 

is  a  manly  fellow  with  plenty  of  brains,  and 
are  only  the  handsome  and  well  favored  to  be 
beloved,  oh  my  ZelphineT* 

Walter  asked  this  absurd  question  with  such 
a  comical  expression  in  his  handsome  eyes,  that 
I  could  not  help  laughing,  and  so  had  to  forgive 
him  for  calling  me  a  match-maker.  My  reason 
was  rather  an  absurd  one  I  admit,  but  I  fancy 
that  I  am  spoiled,  having  so  many  good-looking 
men  in  my  own  family — and  then  no  one,  even 
Ludovico  himself,  seems  quite  good  enough  for 
Angela. 

To  return  to  our  discussion,  Angela  says, 
**Why  not  go  directly  to  Cornwall  and  see 
Tintagel  and  some  of  the  places  down  there?" 
Much  as  I  wish  to  see  Lynton  I  was  almost 
ready  to  yield  to  Angela's  suggestion,  as  it  has 
been  raining  since  luncheon  and  you  know  that 
nothing  so  completely  takes  the  life  and  spirit 
out  of  me  as  dull  rainy  weather,  but  fortunately 
Walter  came  to  my  rescue.  Although  I  know 
that  his  own  inclinations  draw  him  strongly 
toward  Tintagel  and  King  Arthur's  castle,  of 
which  Dr.  Mclvor  has  told  him  so  much,  he  says 
that  the  weather  will  probably  be  more  stormy 
in  Cornwall  and  that  Lynton  is  the  place  of  all 
others  that  we  should  see.  So  to  Lynton  we 
go  to-morrow. 

262 


"THE  LAND   OF  LORNA  DOONE" 


MOKDAY,  August  26th. 

I  am  finishing  my  letter,  dear  Margaret, 
while  we  are  waiting  for  luncheon.  Our  lug- 
gage is  already  in  the  hall,  as  we  take  an  early 
afternoon  train  for  Lynton. 

This  morning  Walter  had  a  note  from  Dr. 
Mclvor,  asking  him  to  wire  him  at  once,  as  he 
wishes  to  join  us  at  our  next  stopping  place. 
As  it  has  been  raining  all  morning,  we  have 
spent  our  time  in  small  shops  looking  over  post- 
cards, which  the  children  delight  in,  of  course. 
Angela  is  interested  in  everything  and  is  quite 
her  old  self  to-day.  She  has  changed  her  mind 
and  is  very  anxious  to  go  to  Lynton. 

August  27th. 

The  ideal  route  from  Ilfracombe  to  Lynton  is 
by  coach  through  Watermouth,  Combe  Martin, 
whose  ancient  battlemented  church,  with  its 
beautiful  perpendicular  tower,  is  well  worth  a 
visit,  by  Trentishoe  and  Hunter's  Inn,  which  is 
only  one  mile  from  the  sea,  and  on,  skirting  the 
sea  all  the  way,  by  Wooda  Bay  and  Lee  Abbey 
to  the  Valley  of  Eocks,  which  is  a  short  walk 
from  the  principal  hotels  of  Lynton. 

As  the  rain  was  pouring  in  torrents  when  we 
left  Ilfracombe,  and  not  being,  like  the  English, 

263 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

addicted  to  coaching  in  "soft  weather,"  we 
journeyed  by  rail  via  Barnstaple,  where  we,  of 
course,  changed  cars,  as  through  trains  do  not 
prevail  in  this  part  of  England.  By  the  time 
we  reached  Barnstaple,  or  Barum  as  they  call 
it  here,  the  sun  was  shining  gloriously,  lighting 
up  the  Taw  until  its  broad  expanse  of  tide  water 
shone  like  a  silver  lake.  The  journey  of  nine- 
teen miles  or  more,  from  Barnstaple  Junction 
to  Lynton,  was  made  slowly  over  a  narrow- 
gauge  railway,  which  gave  us  time  to  enjoy  the 
beauty  of  sea  and  shore.  On  both  sides  of  the 
road  the  moors  reach  off  into  space,  with  charm- 
ing bits  of  woodland  nestling  down  in  the  val- 
leys, and  hedges,  hedges  everywhere  and  never 
a  fence  to  be  seen. 

After  passing  Blackmoor  and  crossing  the 
Heddon,  a  sudden  ascent  brought  the  sea  in  full 
view  at  "Wooda  Bay,  while  to  the  right  there 
stretched  before  us,  like  another  sea,  the  seem- 
ingly boundless  expanse  of  Exmoor,  mysterious 
with  the  mystery  of  the  moors.  Why  the  moors 
are  mysterious  and  awesome  I  know  not ;  but  we 
all  felt  it;  even  Angela,  who  could  laugh  and 
chatter  merrily  among  the  most  thrilling  asso- 
ciations of  Eome,  was  awed  into  silence  by  the 
vast  reaches  of  Exmoor  over  which  the  evening 
shadows  were  gathering.    Nor  was  it  because 

264 


"THE   LAND   OF  LORNA   DOONE" 

we  were  thinking  of  the  Doones  who  had  once 
made  this  region  so  terrible,  as  we  failed  to 
associate  Barnstaple  and  Lynton  with  the  fa- 
mous outlaw  band  until  some  people  in  the  rail- 
way coach  began  to  talk  about  their  outrages 
in  this  neighborhood,  with  all  the  realism  and 
detail  in  which  country  people  seem  to  delight. 
One  of  the  party,  a  stout  woman  with  a  kindly 
face,  dwelt  with  harrowing  minuteness  upon  the 
carrying  off  of  fair  Margery  Babcock  from 
her  husband's  farm  at  Martinhoe  near  by,  and 
the  cruel  murder  of  her  baby. 

"I  Ve  heard  my  gran'fayther  tell  on  it 
many's  the  time,"  said  the  narrator,  pausing 
for  breath.  ''  The  Doones,  devils  I  call  'em, 
being  in  a  great  taking  'cause  they  found  but 
poor  victuals  in  the  larder,  began  to  play  loriot 
with  the  poor  babe.  The  serving  maid,  lying 
hid  under  a  fagot  of  wood  in  the  bake-oven, 
heard  them  sing  in  their  rage,  as  they  tossed 
the  child  before  the  fire : 

If  any  man  asketh  who  killed  thee, 
Say  'twas  the  Doones  of  Badgeworthy. 

The  last  word  the  good  dame  pronounced 
''Badgery,"  thus  making  even  the  lines  of  the 
cruel  couplet. 

"And  the  poor  wench  (my  gran'fayther  knew 

265 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

her  gran 'son)  was  lying  there  afraid  to  breathe 
for  fear  she  might  let  out  a  hiccough,  she  be- 
ing subject  to  them,  and  they  find  her  and  carry 
her  off  after  her  mistress  that  was  carried  away 
by  Carver  Doone  himself.  Folks  around  here 
blamed  Honor  Jose,  that  was  her  name,  but 
my  gran'fayther  would  hear  naught  of  blame 
for  the  poor  wench.  He  always  stuck  to  it  and 
said  she  could  never  have  saved  the  baby,  and 
life  's  life,  and  honor  's  honor,  that  being  her 
name,  too,  and  both  would  have  gone  down  be- 
fore those  bold,  bad  men.  But  the  miseries  of 
Kit  Babcock,  Vho  was  clean  dazed  with  sorrow 
for  his  sweet  Mistress  Margery,  and  the  babe, 
as  much  a  martyr  as  the  babes  we  have  church 
service  for  on  a  Holy  Innocents'  Day,  roused 
up  the  whole  countryside.  No  man  hereabouts 
rested  until  they  had  scotched  the  vipers  in 
their  own  nest  and  set  it  afire,  and  drove  them 
out  to  meet  our  men  in  the  open.  Jan  Snell, 
Honor's  young  man,  was  foremost  in  the  posse, 
and  the  story  is  that  he  had  the  satisfaction  of 
laying  low  one  of  the  very  men  that  came  to  Kit 
Babcock 's  cottage.  Honor  would  never  hear  a 
word  of  marryin'  till  he  came  back  and  told 
her  that.  Ofttimes,  when  her  own  baby  was 
lyin'  on  her  breast,  she  must  have  thought  of 
that  poor  murdered  babe.    They  say  she  heard 

266 


"THE   LAND   OF   LORNA  DOONE" 

its  cries  in  her  sleep,  at  night,  till  her  own  baby 
came  to  comfort  her." 

The  farmer's  wife  had  fortunately  reached 
the  end  of  her  tale  by  the  time  our  train  drew 
up  at  the  terminus,  otherwise  we  could  never 
have  left  her.  As  it  was,  the  girls  followed 
her,  helped  her  with  her  parcels  and  did  not 
quit  her  side  until  they  saw  her  safely  tucked 
into  the  rude  little  cart  in  which  her  spouse  had 
come  to  meet  her. 

When  the  good  dame  drove  off,  looking  like 
a  motherly  Kris  Kringle,  her  face  bubbling  over 
with  fatness  and  good  nature,  as  she  sat  smil- 
ing at  us  above  her  hundred  and  one  boxes  and 
parcels,  we  made  our  way  to  the  char  a  bancs 
that  were  waiting  to  take  passengers  to  Lynton. 

As  the  station  stands  very  high,  the  road  to 
Lynton  is  chiefly  down  hill.  At  the  foot  of  one 
of  the  longest  of  these  Devonshire  hills,  we 
came  upon  the  lovely  little  town  of  Lynmouth. 
Its  one  street  follows  the  windings  of  the  East 
and  West  Lyns,  which  here  unite  their  waters 
and  run  swiftly  to  the  sea  over  a  rocky  bed  and 
between  well  wooded  shores,  "the  rivers  and 
the  sea,"  as  Southey  says,  making  ''but  one 
sound  of  uproar." 

Although  Lynton  stands  four  hundred  feet 
above  Lynmouth,  it  is  not  easy  to  say  where 

267 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

one  town  ends  and  the  other  begins,  as  the 
Lynmouth  houses  climb  up  the  hill  above  the 
valley,  and  those  of  Lynton  reach  down  the 
steep  cliff  to  meet  them.  Yet  each  place  has 
its  own  individual  charm.  If  Lynmouth  is 
quaint  and  picturesque,  with  its  thatched  cot- 
tages embowered  in  vines,  its  old  stone  walls 
and  small  pier  upon  which  an  ancient  tower 
stands,  as  if  to  guard  the  peaceful  harbor,  Lyn- 
ton has  a  beauty  of  its  own  in  rugged  cliffs  and 
bold  headlands  reaching  out  into  the  sea. 

After  establishing  ourselves  in  our  rooms, 
there  was  barely  time  before  dinner  to  visit 
the  Valley  of  Rocks,  which  is  overshadowed 
by  the  huge  uplifted  crag  of  Castle  Rock  with 
the  Devil's  Cheese-ring  standing  close  beside  it. 
Southey,  in  describing  this  wonderful  gap  in 
the  hillside,  which  seems  to  have  been  cleft 
asunder  by  giant  forces,  speaks  of  these  great 
boulders  and  bare  ridges  of  rock  as  ''the  very^ 
bones  and  skeleton  of  the  earth,"  and  of  the 
vast  pile  of  Castle  Rock  as  worthy  to  have  been 
a  palace  of  the  pre- Adamite  kings  or  a  city  of 
the  Anakim,  in  its  shapeless  grandeur. 

The  Valley  of  Rocks,  called  by  the  Exmoor 
folk  the  "Danes"  or  the  "Denes,"  which  is  one 
of  their  words  for  a  hollow  place  like  a  den,  was 
the  winter  home  of  "Mother  Melldrum,  the  wise 

268 


"THE   LAND   OF   LORNA   DOONE" 

woman  of  Simonsbath, "  whom  John  Ridd  vis- 
ited in  her  lair,  and  questioned  about  his  next 
meeting  with  Lorna  Doone.  Under  the  shadow 
of  the  great  rock,  in  the  darkening  evening 
light,  it  was  not  difficult  to  picture  the  weird 
scene  described  by  Blackmore.  The  wrinkled 
old  face,  with  its  bright,  shining  eyes,  the  up- 
lifted hand,  pointing  to  the  narrow  shelf  of 
rock,  where  a  poor  fat  sheep  was  overcome  by 
a  wolfish  black  goat,  the  resounding  voice  cry- 
ing, ''Have  naught  to  do  with  any  Doone,  John 
Ridd;  mark  the  end  of  it!'*  The  end  of  it 
being  that  the  poor  sheep  was  thrown  from  the 
crag  into  the  sea  before  John  Ridd  could  reach 
it,  while  he,  frightened  as  he  was  by  the  scene, 
the  hour  and  the  dismal  prophecy  of  the  ' 'fear- 
ful woman,"  still  plucked  up  heart  of  grace  to 
believe  that  he  might  in  the  end  win  his  Lorna. 

When  we  reluctantly  quitted  the  "Denes," 
from  whose  gray  rocks  the  afterglow  had  faded, 
we  vowed  that  we  would  spend  every  sunset  in 
this  wonderful  valley;  but  the  morning  light 
and  Walter's  conversations  with  the  several 
drivers  have  revealed  so  many  delightful  places 
to  explore  that  it  now  looks  as  if  we  should  be 
coaching  and  junketing  every  hour  of  our  stay 
at  Lynton. 

One  day  we  are  to  drive  to  the  Hunter 's  Inn, 

269 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

which  is  in  a  valley  of  heather  and  furze,  near 
the  sea.  Another  drive  will  be  to  Simonsbath 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  Exmoor  forest,  and  still 
another  drive  or  walk  will  be  to  Lee  Abbey,  the 
ancient  home  of  the  ill-starred  family  of  De 
Wichehalse,  all  of  whom  perished  in  this  beau- 
tiful, cruel  bay. 

These  are  only  a  few  of  the  many  places  in 
the  neighborhood  well  worth  visiting,  and  yet 
Lynton  itself  is  beautiful  enough  to  hold  us  fast 
by  its  own  charms.  I  am  writing  on  a  delightful 
balcony  which  overhangs  the  cliff.  We  look 
down  upon  many  hill-side  gardens  which  are 
as  lovely  as  those  of  Italy.  Four  hundred  feet 
below  us  are  Lynmouth  and  the  two  babbling 
Lyns,  while  beyond,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
is  the  sea,  or  rather,  the  Bristol  Channel,  and 
toward  the  north  the  line  of  the  Welsh  hills, 
faint  and  cloudlike  in  the  distance.  Angela  and 
I  would  be  content  to  spend  the  best  part  of  the 
day  on  this  lovely  balcony,  reading,  talking,' 
and  writing  to  you;  but  Walter  urges  us  to 
make  the  most  of  the  fine  weather  for  an  ex- 
cursion to  the  Doone  Valley,  a  drive  of  ten  miles 
or  more.  On  cloudy  and  rainy  days  he  is  plan- 
ning to  fish  with  Dr.  Mclvor  in  the  Oare  Water 
or  in  the  Barle,  as  trout  abound  in  all  of  these 
mountain  streams. 

270 


"THE   LAND   OF  LORNA   DOONE" 

August  28th. 

Yesterday  afternoon  our  road  lay  by  the  East 
Lyn,  and  on  by  that  lovely  glen,  the  Waters- 
meet,  in  which  two  rushing  streams  throw  them- 
selves into  each  other's  arms,  and  go  singing 
on  their  way  to  Lynmouth  and  the  sea.  Much 
of  our  drive  was  by  Brendon  Water,  which 
separates  Devonshire  from  Somerset.  At  Bren- 
don, the  old  bridge,  overhung  with  trees  and 
vines,  is  so  picturesque  that  Angela  and  Lisa 
begged  the  driver  to  stop  long  enough  to  allow 
them  to  take  a  picture  of  it,  while  we  strolled 
along  the  road- side  and  thought  how  easily  the 
Doones  could  have  hid  themselves  in  the  thick 
undergrowth  while  lying  in  wait  for  unwary 
travellers.  We  began  to  read  Lorna  Doone  to 
the  girls  last  night,  and  Christine  thought  she 
had  found  the  very  ''little  gullet  by  a  barrow 
of  heather"  in  which  John  Ridd  and  the  timor- 
ous John  Fry  hid  themselves  while  the  Doones 
passed  by,  but  the  driver  disturbed  her  pleasant 
fancy  by  telling  her  that  Dunkery  Beacon  was 
over  toward  Porlock,  and  not  in  our  route  for 
this  afternoon. 

We  drove  for  some  distance  along  the  edge 
of  the  moor  and  through  gates  into  the  ancient 
forest.    Gates  seem  quite  out  of  keeping  with 

271 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

the  wildness  of  Exmoor,  and  are  probably  to 
keep  the  deer,  which  still  abound  in  this  region, 
from  wandering  far  afield. 

Malmsmead,  where  are  the  buildings  that 
constitute  what  is  now  called  the  Doone  farm, 
is  a  most  peaceful  valley,  with  low  hills  rising 
above  it  and  a  lovely  mountain  stream  winding 
through  it,  over  which  is  a  fine  double-arched 
stone  bridge.  Here  we  were  glad  to  climb  down 
from  our  high  seats  on  the  coach  and  refresh 
ourselves  with  some  bread  and  jam,  and  some 
very  poor  tea,  before  beginning  our  long  walk 
through  the  Badgeworthy  Glen  to  the  strong- 
hold of  the  Doones. 

The  first  part  of  the  route  was  easy  walking, 
through  narrow  hedge-bordered  lanes  and  over 
trickling  streamlets,  until  we  began  to  ascend 
the  famous  Waterslide,  which  seems  a  much 
less  formidable  stream  now  than  the  one  up 
which  little  John  Eidd  struggled  so  painfully 
in  search  of  the  much  prized  ''loaches."  The 
walk  was  longer  than  we  had  been  told,  and 
as  the  roughest  part  still  lay  before  us,  Walter 
begged  us  to  linger  by  the  stream  or  stroll  back 
slowly  toward  the  farm,  while  he  pushed  on 
with  some  Englishmen  wlio  had  come  from 
Lynton  in  another  coach. 

The  drive  and  the  walk  are  really  too  much 

272 


"THE   LAND   OF  LORNA   DOONE" 

for  an  afternoon,  and  we  are  promising  our- 
selves the  pleasure  of  coming  again  for  a  whole 
day,  as  Walter  reports  the  Doone  stronghold 
most  interesting.  The  foundations  of  some  of 
the  huts  are  still  to  be  seen,  and  although  the 
entrance  is  not  defended,  as  Blackmore 
described  it,  by  ^'a  fence  of  sheer  rock  and 
rough  arches,  jagged,  black  and  terrible,"  this 
side-valley,  shut  in  by  bleak  moorland  hills,  is 
quite  weird  enough  to  excite  ''an  imagination 
less  active  than  Zelphine's."  The  last  words, 
in  quotes,  as  you  may  notice,  are  Walter's,  who 
claims  that  I  have  a  monopoly  of  this  faculty  to 
the  exclusion  of  the  rest  of  the  family. 

We  drove  home  by  another  route,  stopping  at 
Oare  church  where  Lorna  and  John  were  mar- 
ried. As  it  stands  to-day,  the  church  is  quaint 
and  interesting,  although  considerably  enlarged 
and  disappointingly  modern  in  some  of  its  ap- 
pointments. A  heavy  arch  or  screen  of  dark 
wood  separates  the  newer  part  of  the  building 
from  the  tiny  chapel,  before  whose  altar  John 
Ridd  and  Lorna  stood  when  the  sound  of  a  shot 
followed  the  parson's  blessing,  and  the  bride 
in  her  bright  beauty  fell  bleeding  at  her  hus- 
band's feet. 

The  little  girls  were  so  excited  by  our  talk 
of  the  tragic  wedding  that  we  had  to  explain  to 

18  273 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

them  that  the  valiant  John  pursued  his  enemy, 
Carver  Doone,  overcame  him,  and  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  him  sink  into  the  black  bog 
of  the  Wizard's  Slough  near  by. 

''And  the  bride,  did  she  get  alive  again?" 
asked  Lisa,  knowing  well  that  a  story  has  no 
right  to  end  in  sorrow. 

''Yes,"  said  Walter,  gravely,  "which  was 
less  difficult  as  she  was  not  at  any  time  really 
dead,  although  her  wedding  dress  was  quite 
ruined,  and  she  was  never  able  to  wear  it  at 
family  parties;  but  John  bought  her  another 
dress  quite  as  good,  and  they  lived  ever  after 
in  great  happiness  and  peace,  with  never  a 
Doone  in  all  the  country  to  molest  or  make  them 
afraid. ' ' 

The  drive  home  by  Countisbury,  with  the 
Sillery  Sands  and  the  sea,  on  one  side,  and  the 
downs,  purple  with  heather,  on  the  other,  was 
so  delightful  that  we  were  loath  to  quit  the  head- 
land road  and  descend  the  long  hill  to  Lyn- 
mouth.  Here  the  driver  insisted  upon  dumping 
us,  explaining  with  perfect  satisfaction  to  him- 
self, if  not  to  us,  that  the  Lynton  hill  was  quite 
too  steep  for  his  horses  with  so  heavy  a  load, 
and  that  it  was  customary  for  travellers  to  use 
the  lift. 

We  naturally  scorned  the  lift  as  an  inglorious 

274 


"THE   LAND   OF  LORNA  DOONE" 

way  of  ending  an  afternoon  of  ideal  beauty  and 
charm,  and  slowly  made  our  way  up  the  steep 
hill-side  by  the  pretty  vine-covered  cottage 
where  Shelley  and  his  Harriet  lived  for  a 
short  time  after  their  return  from  Ireland. 

By  the  time  we  reached  the  top  of  the  hill 
the  western  sky  was  brilliant  in  an  afterglow 
of  crimson  and  gold,  while  the  vast  mass  of 
Castle  Rock,  in  the  shadow,  stood  out  dark, 
rugged  and  menacing,  like  the  fortress  of  a  rob- 
ber chieftain,  or  the  very  fastness  of  the 
Doones  themselves. 

August  29th. 
Dr.  Mclvor  appeared  early  this  morning. 
How  he  came  we  do  not  know,  as  there  was  no 
train  arriving  about  that  time.  He  probably 
walked  part  of  the  way,  as  he  is  a  famous 
walker.  I  was  upstairs ;  but  Angela  and  Chris- 
tine happened  to  be  in  the  hall,  and  when  we 
came  downstairs  we  found  them,  all  three,  wait- 
ing to  go  into  breakfast  with  us.  Angela  is 
really  treating  the  Doctor  quite  civilly,  and  has 
gone  with  him  to  explore  the  Valley  of  Rocks, 
very  discreetly  taking  the  children  with  her. 
We  are  planning  to  have  a  whole  day  to-morrow 
in  Dooneland,  where  Walter  and  the  Doctor  are 
hoping  to  have  some  fishing  in  the  Badgeworthy 
or  in  one  of  the  other  waters  thereabout. 

276 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

Walter  carried  the  Doctor  oif  to  a  sale  of 
ponies  to-day,  which  is  one  of  the  excitements 
of  this  region.  This  is  really  much  more  inter- 
esting than  an  ordinary  sale,  as  the  sturdy  lit- 
tle creatures  which  are  running  wild  are  bought 
**on  the  hoof,"  if  I  may  so  express  it,  and, 
quite  the  reverse  of  Mrs.  Glass's  *'hare,"  you 
buy  your  pony  first  and  then  catch  it. 

I  stopped  writing  to  go  with  Angela  and  the 
girls  to  the  Watersmeet,  where  we  spent  the 
whole  morning.  Angela  is  making  a  water- 
color  sketch  of  a  little  nook  she  is  very  fond  of, 
where  the  shade  is  dense  and  the  birches  lean 
over  the  rushing  Lyn  until  their  branches  dip 
into  the  water. 

Our  two  men  have  just  returned  from  the 
sale,  and  what  do  you  think  they  have  brought 
back  with  them?  Two  ponies;  Walter  caught 
one  and  Dr.  Mclvor  the  other.  They  are  the 
dearest  shaggy  little  creatures,  and  so  love  their 
moorland  freedom  that  they  cry  like  children 
when  they  are  first  put  into  harness. 

Dr.  Mclvor  has  bestowed  his  prize  upon 
Christine,  and  Lisa  has  adopted  the  other  one. 
I  really  think  that  Walter  had  no  idea  of  taking 
his  pony  home  when  he  caught  it,  and  was  only 
thinking  of  the  sport;  but  the  children  have 
simply  fallen  in  love  with  the  dear  little  crea- 

276 


"THE   LAND   OF  LORNA   DOONE" 

tures,  and  I  cannot  blame  them,  as  they  are 
perfect  dears,  and  I  love  them  myself ;  but  how 
shall  we  ever  get  them  home  1  Walter  will  have 
to  manage  it  in  some  way.  I  am  glad  that  this 
added  responsibility  is  not  mine,  which  Angela 
says  is  '*a  very  undutiful  speech  from  a 
helpmeet. ' ' 

September  2ud. 
After  a  week's  stay  in  Lynton  we  are  by  no 
means  ready  to  leave  it.  In  addition  to  the 
beauty  of  its  bold  headlands  and  peaceful  val- 
leys, we  have  revelled  in  certain  creature  com- 
forts not  to  be  despised  by  a  good  traveller. 
In  view  of  all  that  we  have  enjoyed  at  this 
inn,  we  bestowed  our  tips  upon  the  numerous 
attendants  with  real  pleasure;  indeed  Angela, 
with  royal  generosity,  handed  the  porter  a 
purse  just  before  we  drove  away,  greatly  to 
the  Doctor's  amusement,  who  asked  if  this 
was  an  American  custom.  The  man  seemed 
charmed  with  Angela's  graceful  gift,  although 
she  explained  that  the  purse  was  an  old  one 
that  she  had  intended  to  throw  away,  and  that 
it  only  contained  small  pieces  of  silver  and  cop- 
pers. These  Devonshire  people  are  simple- 
hearted  folk,  easily  pleased,  and  will,  I  am  sure, 
always  think  of  Angela  as  a  princess  from 
fairyland. 

277 


XII 

DUNDAGEL  BY  THE  CORNISH  SEA 


BroEFORD,  September  4th. 

Two  days  we  have  spent  here  in  search  of 
Kingsley  associations.  This  morning  we  drove 
to  the  little  town  of  Westward  Ho  to  visit  the 
house,  now  an  inn,  in  which  a  part  of  the  novel 
Westward  Ho!  was  written.  This  afternoon 
we  went  to  the  Royal  Hotel,  here  in  Bideford, 
which  is  the  one  Kingsley  described  as  the  home 
of  Eose  Saltern's  father,  and  in  the  large 
drawing-room  the  novelist  wrote  the  first  chap- 
ters of  his  romance.  This  room  has  a  stucco 
ceiling,  decorated  with  garlands  of  fruits,  flow- 
ers and  birds,  all  delicately  tinted,  artists 
having  been  brought  from  Italy  for  the  purpose 
by  the  merchant  prince  who  lived  in  this  house 
in  the  time  of  Sir  Francis  Drake.  The  effect 
is  rich  and  handsome,  odd  as  it  may  seem. 

Yesterday  we  had  one  golden  day  at  Clovelly. 
Here  we  found  ourselves  in  the  very  heart  of 
Kingsleyland,  for  near  Clovelly  Court  is  the 

278 


DUNDAGEL  BY  THE   SEA 


little  church  of  which  the  elder  Kingsley  was 
rector  during  the  boyhood  and  youth  of  the 
novelist. 

The  genius  of  Charles  Kingsley  seems  to 
have  owed  a  lasting  debt  to  the  rugged  and 
picturesque  beauty  of  the  Devonshire  coast, 
which  he  acknowledged  to  his  wife  when  he 
brought  her  here  in  later  years.  ''Now  that 
you  have  seen  Clovelly,"  he  said,  "you  know 
what  was  the  inspiration  of  my  life  before  I 
met  you." 

Dear  little  Clovelly,  with  its  one  precipitous 
street  rising  sharply  from  the  sea,  is  like  a  bit 
of  Italy  set  down  in  green  England.  It  is  so 
lovely,  with  its  cottages  embowered  in  vines, 
its  fuchsia  trees  gay  with  blossoms,  and  its 
Hobby  Drive  from  which  we  had  incomparable 
glimpses  of  sea  and  shore,  that  it  deserves  a 
whole  letter  to  itself,  which  Angela  will  doubt- 
less write  you,  as  she  has  quite  lost  her  heart 
to  Clovelly. 

The  Wellington-, 

BoscASTLE,  September  5tli. 

"We  came  here  to-day  from  Bideford  by  a 
most  roundabout  route  through  Yeoford,  Oke- 
hampton,  and  Launceston,  to  Camelford.  The 
journey  between  Okehampton  and  Launceston 
was  on  the  edge  of  Dartmoor,    and   the   vast 

279 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

reaches  of  moorland  were  quite  beyond  any- 
thing that  we  have  seen  further  north. 

Camelford  is  the  ancient  Camelot  where  King 
Arthur  fought  his  last  fatal  battle  with  his 
faithless  kinsman,  Modred.  "We  were  glad  that 
there  was  no  time  to  spend  at  this  place,  as  they 
show  here  a  spot  which  they  call  King  Arthur 's 
grave,  and  having  seen  the  place  where  he  and 
Queen  Guinevere  were  buried  at  Glastonbury 
we  distinctly  object  to  being  shown  another 
grave  of  King  Arthur. 

A  pleasant  moorland  drive,  of  four  or  iive 
miles,  brought  us  to  the  good  inn  where  we  are 
stopping. 

"We  have  established  ourselves  at  Boscastle 
instead  of  at  Trevenna,  and  for  the  most  mun- 
dane of  reasons,  the  good  repute  of  the  inn  here. 
A  charming  compatriot,  whom  we  met  at  Bide- 
ford,  recommended  the  Wellington,  saying  that 
she  sometimes  trusted  to  Providence  in  the 
choice  of  inns,  and  sometimes  to  Baedeker,  and 
in  the  latter  case  she  always  rued  the  day. 
Following  the  leadings  of  this  stranger  guide, 
we  are  living  in  the  greatest  comfort  in  this 
charmingly  picturesque  place,  and  find  to  our 
amusement  that  in  the  case  of  this  particular 
inn  Providence  and  Baedeker  are  of  one  mind. 

Everything  about  this  house  is  English  of 

280 


DUNDAGEL  BY  THE  SEA 


the  better  sort,  from  the  magnificent  pitcher 
in  the  shape  of  a  swan  that  adorns  my  wash- 
hand-stand  to  the  afternoon  tea-table,  where 
Devonshire  cream  flows  as  freely  as  the  milk 
and  honey  of  the  promised  land  of  Israel.  On 
our  drive  over  from  Camelford,  Walter,  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something  to  the  driver,  from 
whom  he  says  he  generally  learns  more  than 
from  the  London  Times,  asked  whether  he 
should  find  Devonshire  cream  at  Boscastle. 

You  would  have  laughed  if  you  could  have 
seen  the  shake  of  the  head  and  the  lift  of  the 
shoulders  with  which  this  loyal  son  of  Corn- 
wall emphasized  his  contempt  for  the  products 
of  an  adjoining  county.  ''No,  Cornish  cream," 
was  the  curt  reply.  We  all  laughed,  and  the 
man,  with  a  comfortable  sense  of  having  the 
best  of  the  situation,  became  quite  loquacious, 
pointing  out  to  us  places  of  interest  that  we 
passed,  flourishing  his  whip  with  pride  toward 
Brown  Willa,  the  highest  hill  in  Cornwall, 
toward  Willa  Park  Point,  which  bold  headland 
is  crowned  with  a  tiny  white  observatory,  and 
toward  the  new  hotel  at  Trevenna,  a  substantial 
castellated  building,  which  to  the  bucolic  mind 
is  of  far  more  importance  than  the  ruins  of 
King  Arthur's  castle  near  by. 

The  afternoon  was  so  perfect  that  we  were 

281 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

tempted  out  for  a  walk  by  an  enticiDg  headland 
path,  which  follows  the  windings  of  the  tortuous 
Boscastle  harbor,  to  a  seat  high  above  the  sea, 
from  which  we  had  a  fine  view  of  the  sun  set- 
ting behind  the  great  boulders  of  Tintagel  Head. 
Beyond  lies  King  Arthur's  castle,  ^'Dundagel 
by  the  Cornish  sea,"  a  realm  of  mystery  and 
romance  which  we  shall  soon  explore. 

September  6th. 
This  has  been  heaven's  own  day  for  beauty 
of  sea,  shore,  and  sky.  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  we  have  spent  the  greater  part  of  it  in 
walking  through  the  one  street  of  Trevenna,  or 
Tintagel  as  they  seem  to  call  it  now,  a  graceful 
concession  to  the  importance  of  the  castle  of 
Dundagel  or  Tintagel,  which  dominates  the 
whole  region  hereabouts.  Nearly  all  the  build- 
ings of  the  little  hamlet  are  quaint  and  pictur- 
esque. The  village  post-office  is  especially 
charming  with  its  moss-grown  eaves  and  many 
peaks,  gables  and  chimneys.  Angela  was  much 
more  successful  in  getting  a  picture  of  this 
building  than  of  the  castle.  The  vastness  of 
the  ruin  and  the  irregularity  of  the  foundations, 
a  part  on  the  mainland  and  the  larger  portion 
upon  a  wild  craggy  headland  reaching  out  into 
the  sea,  made  it  quite  impossible  to  include  the 
whole  on  one  film. 

282 


DUNDAGEL   BY  THE   SEA 


After  securing  tlie  key  of  the  castle,  which 
we  found,  as  directed  by  our  guide-book,  at  the 
little  refreshment  house  in  the  valley,  we 
crossed  a  narrow  path  over  a  chasm  three  hun- 
dred feet  deep  and  climbed  up  many  rock-hewn 
steps  to  the  iron  door  that  leads  into  the  great 
banqueting-hall  of  King  Arthur.  Beyond  are 
the  outlines  of  several  rooms,  the  remains  of  a 
chapel,  high  battlemented  walls  supported  by 
noble  buttresses  on  the  cliff  side,  and  two  per- 
fect doorways. 

Although  we  failed  to  be  thrilled  by  ''King 
Arthur's  cups  and  saucers,  the  right  royal 
king's  bed,"  or  even  his  ''footsteps  imprinted 
on  the  solid  rock  where  he  stepped  at  one  stride 
across  the  chasm  to  Tintagel  church,"  on  the 
hill  beyond,  we  were  deeply  impressed  by  the 
strength  and  dignity  of  what  is  left  of  this  once- 
impregnable  fortress.  Even  in  its  ruinous  state 
it  recalls  the  descriptions  that  reached  the  ears 
of  Uther  Pendragon  when  he  set  forth  to  cap- 
ture Dundagel  and  to  possess  himself  of  the  fair 
Igernia:  "A  castle  so  munified  by  art  and  na- 
ture, and  of  so  narrow  an  entrance  over  the  sea 
and  rocks  by  a  drawbridge  and  chain,  that  three 
armed  men  could  hold  at  bay  an  army  on  the 
mainland."  You  remember  that  it  was  only 
by  the  aid  of  Merlin's  strategy  and  magic  that 

283 


AN   ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

Utlier  of  the  bloody  red  dragon  entered  the  cas- 
tle and,  disguised  as  Gothlois,  gained  admit- 
tance to  the  apartments  of  Igernia.  From  such 
witchcraft  and  treachery,  bloodshed  and 
misery,  the  cruel  deception  of  the  trusting 
Igernia  and  the  slaying  of  her  valiant  and 
faithful  husband,  came  forth  that  flower  of 
knighthood,  truth  and  courage.  King  Arthur. 

A  castle,  however  ruinous,  whose  existence 
reaches  back  into  the  shadowy  time  between 
legend  and  actual  history,  and  whose  associa- 
tions are  among  the  most  inspiring  that  belong 
to  English  literature,  is  something  to  make  one 
forget  the  world  of  to-day  and  dream  dreams 
of  the  past.  And  here,  seated  upon  a  bit  of 
grassy  sward  with  a  projecting  rock  to  lean 
against,  I  sit  and  dream  and  write  to  you,  while 
Walter  and  Dr.  Mclvor  indulge  their  anti- 
quarian tastes  by  examining  the  masonry  of 
the  outer  walls  of  the  castle. 

Angela  and  the  girls,  as  sure-footed  as  the 
mountain  goats  that  are  the  only  inhabitants 
of  the  castle,  climbed  to  the  highest  point,  an 
alarmingly  dizzy  height!  Truly,  as  Nordau 
has  said,  "He  must  have  eyes  that  will  scale 
Tintagel,'*  and  be  sure  of  foot  as  well,  I  may 
add.  They  called  to  me  from  their  rocky  height 
that  the  view  was  fine  and  that  I  had  better  join 

284 


DUNDAGEL   BY  THE  SEA 


them.  Even  far  below,  where  I  sit,  the  pros- 
pect is  most  alluring,  from  Trevose  Head  on 
the  south  to  Hartland  Point  on  the  north,  which 
cuts  off  dear  little  Clovelly  and  Bideford,  while 
still  beyond  in  the  far  distance  I  can  discern  the 
faint  cloud-like  line  of  the  Welsh  coast.  Quite 
near  are  Lundy  Island  and  the  Two  Sisters,  and 
far  below,  at  the  foot  of  a  deep  chasm,  there  is 
a  little  sheltered  cove  with  a  sandy  beach  where 
children  are  at  play. 

I  had  written  just  so  much  of  my  letter  when 
Walter  and  Dr.  Mclvor  joined  me,  both  enthu- 
siastic over  their  explorations.  The  rudeness 
of  the  masonry  and  the  use  of  china  clay  for 
mortar  prove  beyond  doubt,  the  Doctor  says, 
that  the  outer  walls,  bastion  and  gateway  be- 
long to  the  period  of  the  early  Britons. 

Angela  and  the  girls  have  come  down  from 
their  eyrie,  the  latter  quite  clamorous  for 
luncheon,  which,  we  had  been  told,  we  should 
find  in  the  little  cottage  where  we  obtained 
the  key  of  the  castle.  Walter  and  I  were  loath 
to  quit  this  charming  spot  for  the  unpromising 
cottage,  whose  refreshments  we  were  sure 
would  fail  to  refresh.  But  with  a  long  after- 
noon before  us,  in  which  we  had  planned  to 
explore  the  church  on  the  cliff  and  to  walk  a 
mile  or  more  along  the  coast  to  the  Trebarwith 

285 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

Strand,  it  seemed  the  part  of  wisdom  to  for- 
tify the  inner  man. 

*'If  we  could  but  be  sure  of  such  'meat  and 
taties'  as  the  Vicar  of  Morwenstow  and  his 
friend  Jeune  feasted  upon  when  they  came 
here,"  said  Dr.  Mclvor,  recalling  to  us  as  we 
walked  the  visit  of  the  two  clericals  to  the 
Ship  Inn  near  Boscastle,  and  the  extreme  reti- 
cence of  the  landlady  when  asked  what  meat 
she  would  serve  her  guests  for  their  dinner. 
When  the  by  no  means  unsavory  dish  was  set 
upon  the  table,  with  not  a  bone  to  identify  the 
joint,  the  good  Vicar  suggested  that  the  Widow 
Treworgy  was  serving  them  a  bit  of  a  Bos- 
castle baby ;  upon  which  the  Rev.  Jeune  dashed 
into  the  kitchen  with  a  fresh  set  of  questions, 
to  which  he  received  the  same  unsatisfactory 
answer, — 'Meat  and  taties.'  Years  after  the 
Vicar  of  Morwenstow  read  in  an  ancient  his- 
tory of  Cornwall  this  illuminating  passage: 
''The  sillie  people  of  Bouscastle  and  Boussiney 
do  catch  in  the  summer  seas  divers  young 
soyles  [seals],  which,  doubtful  if  they  be  fish 
or  flesh,  Conynge  housewives  will  nevertheless 
roast,  and  do  make  thereof  savoury  meat." 

"Savory  meat  whether  of  Boscastle  baby  or 
young  seal  would  be  acceptable  to-day,"  said 
Walter,  as  he  sat  down  to  our  slim  luncheon  of 

280 


DUNDAGEL   BY  THE   SEA 


bread  and  jam  and  ginger  ale  of  a  sweet  insipid 
kind  peculiar  to  the  British  Isles,  not  at  all  like 
the  spicy,  pungent  sort  that  we  know  in  Amer- 
ica as  the  imported  ale. 

However,  with  appetites  sharpened  by  the 
keen  bracing  air  of  this  west  coast,  which  An- 
gela says  is  so  fine  because  it  has  blown  straight 
over  from  America,  with  no  land  on  the  way  to 
contaminate  it,  we  made  a  substantial  meal. 
Indeed,  we  were  so  merry  over  it,  Walter  and 
Dr.  Mclvor  vying  with  each  other  in  telling 
amusing  stories  of  the  eccentric  Vicar,  of  which 
the  M.D.  had  gathered  a  fresh  supply  during  a 
recent  visit  to  Morwenstow,  that  the  land- 
lady's husband,  a  sober- visaged  rustic,  came 
to  the  door  several  times  to  see  what  the  fun 
was  about;  or,  as  Angela  suggested,  to  see 
whether  some  of  us  were  not  fit  subjects  for 
the  county  mad-house.  The  feast  ended  with 
toasts  drunk  in  ginger  ale,  after  which  Ian 
Mclvor  sang  several  verses  of  the  stirring 
''Song  of  The  Western  Men.'*  As  the  Doctor's 
fine  baritone  rang  forth  in  the  haunting 
refrain : 

"And  shall  Trelawney  die? 
And  shall  Trelawney  die? 
Then  twenty  thousand   Cornish  men 
Will  know  the  reason  why ! " 

287 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

I  did  not  wonder  that  Sir  "Walter  Scott  and 
Lord  Macaulay  had  both  been  deceived,  in 
believing  the  Vicar  of  Morwenstow's  song  to 
be  a  genuine  ancient  ballad. 

Something,  perhaps  the  touch  of  pathos  in 
Ian  Mclvor's  voice  or  my  own  warm  sympathy 
with  Trelawney  and  the  other  bold  "  conjuring 
bishops,"  brought  tears  to  my  eyes,  and  turning 
to  Angela  I  saw  something  suspiciously  like 
them  in  her  blue  eyes.  What  has  come  over  our 
Angela,  who  was  not  wont  to  be  moved  to  tears 
by  song  of  man  or  woman?  Almost  before  I 
had  time  to  ask  myself  this  question,  she  was 
chatting  away  as  gayly  as  ever,  asking  me  if  I 
remembered  that  Trevalga  was  the  scene  of 
Black's  ** Three  Feathers."  A  lady  in  the 
coach  had  pointed  out  to  her  several  places 
described  in  the  novel,  and  then  with  her  eyes 
full  of  mischief  she  sang  the  lines  that  Mabyn 
Eosewarne  was  always  repeating  to  her  sister, 
to  prove  to  her  that  her  unwelcome  suitor's 
emerald  *' engaged  ring"  was  of  ill  omen: 

"Oh,  green's  forsaken 
And  yellow 's  forsworn, 

And  blue's  the  sweetest 
Color  that's  worn." 

Dr.  Mclvor  looked  somewhat  disconcerted, 
and  I  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  had 

288 


DUNDAGEL   BY  THE   SEA 


on  a  bright  green  and  particularly  unbecoming 
necktie.  Angela  can  be  a  torment,  as  well  as  a 
delight ! 

We  spent  the  afternoon  in  and  around  Tin- 
tagel  Church,  whose  curious  lich-gate  inter- 
ested us  even  more  than  its  unexpectedly  rich 
interior.  Eough-hewn  logs,  a  little  distance 
apart,  are  placed  over  the  foot-path  between 
the  gate-posts,  which  unusual  arrangement  is 
said  to  prevent  animals  from  entering  the  en- 
closure. Another  surprise  met  us  in  the  church- 
yard, where  the  tombstones  are  supported  by 
strong  buttresses  of  masonry,  so  violent  are 
the  winds  on  this  headland.  We  shivered  at 
the  thought  of  what  this  hill-side  must  be  in 
a  winter  storm,  and  were  glad  to  turn  our  foot- 
steps toward  a  lovely  cove  to  the  south  which  is 
bounded  by  the  shining  Trebarwith  sands.  Here 
we  lingered  so  long  that  the  twilight  had  deep- 
ened into  darkness,  and  the  stars  were  shining 
in  the  blue  above  us,  when  we  drove  back  to 
Boscastle. 

BoscASTLE,  September  8th. 

We  decided,  by  the  advice  of  some  pleasant 
English  people  whom  we  have  met  here,  to 
devote  this  beautiful  Sunday  to  two  interest- 
ing old  churches  near  Boscastle,  the  Minster 
Church  and  St.  Simforium  at  Forrabury.    Our 

19  289 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

way  to  the  Minster  Church,  this  morning,  was 
up  a  steep  little  street,  almost  as  precipitous  as 
the  high  street  of  Clovelly — a  charming  little 
village  street  with  picturesque  cottages  hanging 
on  the  sides  of  the  hill,  set  about  with  gardens 
and  orchards.  A  part  of  the  walk  was  by  bab- 
bling streamlets  and  through  wood  paths  as 
lovely  as  those  by  which  Lancelot  and 
Guinevere  rode  ''through  the  coverts  of  the 
deer,"  in  that  far-off  time  which  seems 
strangely  near  us  to-day  in  this,  the  home  of 
the  Arthurian  story.  Although  this  is  not ' '  the 
boyhood  of  the  year,"  the  verdure  of  these  well- 
watered  forests  and  meadows  is  as  rich  as 
when,  iwith  tears  and  smiles: 

"  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sunlit  fall  of  rain. 

And  far,  in  the  forest  deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air." 

The  Minster  Church  dedicated  to  St. 
Metherian,  a  quite  unknown  quantity  to  us,  is 
situated  in  a  deep,  well-wooded  valley  and  is 
quaint  and  interesting  with  its  carved  oak 
arches,  and  tablets  of  greater  or  less  antiquity. 
In  the  south  aisle  we  found  a  monument  bear- 
ing this  curious  inscription : 

290 


DUNDAGEL   BY  THE  SEA 


"  Forty-nine  years  they  lived  man  and  wife, 
And  what 's  more  rare,  thus  many  without  strife ; 
She  first  departing,  he  a  few  weeks  tried 
To  live  without  her,  could  not,  and  so  died." 

The  name  of  this  town,  Boscastle,  is  we  find 
the  result  of  the  shortening  of  names  in  which 
the  English  delight,  being  originally  the  site  of 
the  Castle  of  Bottreaux,  the  estate  of  a  Norman 
family  who  settled  here  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
II.  Nothing  is  left  of  the  castle  but  a  green 
mound.  Forrabury  Church,  although  ancient, 
is  still  a  quite  substantial  building.  As  the 
afternoon  service  was  later  than  we  had 
thought,  we  climbed  up  the  steep  hill  upon 
which  the  Willa  Park  signal-house  stands  and 
looks  down  upon  the  little  church  below.  Stand- 
ing out  boldly  upon  a  stretch  of  tableland,  girt 
about  by  fields  of  yellowing  grain,  and  flanked 
by  the  small  gray  villages  of  Trevalga  and  Bos- 
castle, the  church  and  its  surroundings  seemed 
to  us  typically  English  and  peaceful  enough  to 
have  inspired  a  pastoral  of  Cowper  or  Words- 
worth. And  yet,  framing  in  this  quiet  picture, 
is  a  rugged  and  dangerous  coast-line.  The  very 
name  of  the  church  speaks  of  the  uncertainty 
of  life  upon  these  wild  shores,  as  Forrabury 
means  "a  far  off  or  fair  burying-place,"  and 

291 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

its  silent  tower  is  associated  with  a  sorrowful 
tale  of  shipwreck.  This  story,  one  of  our  Eng- 
lish acquaintances  related  to  us,  with  that 
pleasant  readiness  to  contribute  his  share  to 
the  general  entertainment  which  we  are  coming 
to  look  upon  as  an  English  trait. 

"After  the  building  of  the  little  church  the 
Lord  of  Bottreaux  sent  a  peal  of  bells,  cast  in 
London,  to  Forrabury  by  sea.  When  the  vessel 
was  still  off  Willa  Park  Point  the  pilot,  a  sailor 
from  Trevenna,  heard  the  sound  of  his  own 
church-bells  and  gave  thanks  to  God,  upon 
which  the  captain,  less  devout  than  his  pilot, 
said  that  they  had  only  their  stout  ship  to 
thank.  The  pilot  remonstrated,  the  captain 
broke  out  in  a  volley  of  oaths,  whereupon  in 
the  words  of  the  Vicar  of  Morwenstow: 

'Up  rose  that  sea,  as  if  it  heard 
The  mighty  Master's  signal  word.' 

The  gale  increased  and  hard  upon  the  perilous 
rocks  the  ill-fated  ship  was  soon  hurled,  a  total 
wreck." 

**And  the  good  pilot?'*  asked  Lisa,  who  is 
my  own  child  in  her  eagerness  for  a  proper 
and  satisfactory  ending  of  a  story. 

"He  clung  to  a  plank,"  said  Mr.  Andrews, 
"and  was  washed  ashore  by  a  friendly  wave." 

292 


DUNDAGEL   BY  THE   SEA 


''I  'm  so  glad!  And  the  wicked  captain,  was 
he  drowned!"  asked  Lisa,  with  the  entire  resig- 
nation with  which  children  always  regard  the 
destruction  of  the  wicked. 

**Yes,"  continued  Mr.  Andrews,  "the  captain 
was  drowned,  and  to  this  day  it  is  said — 

Still  when  the  storm  of  Bottreaux's  waves 
Is  wakening  in  its  weedy  caves, 
Those  bells  that  sullen  surges  hide, 
Peal  their  deep  notes  beneath  the  tide. 
'  Come  to  thy  God  in  time ! ' 
Thus  saith  the  ocean  chime; 
*  Storm,  billow,  whirlwind  past, 
Come  to  thy  God  at  last.' " 

The  tower  of  the  Forrabury  Church,  which 
is  of  three  stages  and  finished  with  battlements, 
like  so  many  of  these  ancient  West  of  England 
churches,  now  contains  but  one  bell,  instead  of 
the  chime  of  bells  that  was  intended  for  it.  In 
the  interior  are  several  monuments  to  the  Bot- 
treaux  family  and  some  good  carvings. 

Although  the  shores  of  Cornwall  are  less 
rich  and  fertile  than  the  Devonshire  land,  these 
bare,  bald  hills  and  treeless  downs  make  their 
own  appeal  to  us,  which  Dr.  Mclvor  says  is 
somewhat  like  the  appeal  of  his  dear  Scottish 
hills.  These  Cornish  folk,  like  the  Scotch,  are 
imagina'tive,  poetic  and  superstitious.    One  can 

293 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

readily  understand  this  being  the  home  of  the 
Arthurian  story,  with  which  the  traditions  of 
St.  Joseph  and  his  fellow  pilgrims  are  so 
strangely  interwoven.  We  are  regretting  now 
that  we  have  not  given  ourselves  time  to  go 
down  to  Penzance,  and  St.  Michael's  Mound, 
which  has  also  its  associations  with  Joseph  of 
Arimathea.  Is  not  travel  just  a  bit  like  life? — 
we  are  always  learning,  often  when  it  is  too 
late,  what  to  do  and  what  to  leave  undone,  and 
hoping  to  pass  by  this  way  again  and  pick  up 
the  threads.  Is  that  too  serious  an  ending  to 
my  letter?  Well,  then,  here  is  a  bit  of  gossip. 
Angela  has  been  so  disagreeable  to  Dr.  Mclvor 
that  I  wonder  that  he  speaks  to  her  at  all.  He 
is  sensitive  and  shows  that  he  feels  her  rebuffs 
by  being  formal  and  studiously  polite.  I  feel 
sorry  for  him,  mais  que  fairef 


XIII 

A  HIGHWAY  OF  KINGS 


Exeter,  September  9tli. 
We  left  Boscastle  this  morning,  driving  to 
Camelford  and  there  taking  a  train  to  Oke- 
hampton.  That  old  town,  lying  under  the 
shadow  of  Yes  Tor,  may  have  many  charms, 
and  there  is  said  to  be  a  ruined  castle  nearly 
hidden  away  in  a  great  park;  but  for  us  all  of 
its  attractions  were  obscured  by  a  blinding  fall 
of  rain.  We  drove  to  the  White  Hart,  bag  and 
baggage,  which  fortunately  was  only  hand  lug- 
gage, as  we  had  our  trunks  sent  on  from  Bide- 
f ord  by ' '  advance  luggage, ' '  and  let  me  tell  you, 
just  here,  for  your  comfort  when  you  travel  in 
England  again,  that  we  found  this  arrange- 
ment most  satisfactory  and  reasonable.  And 
what  a  comfort  it  is  to  be  rid  of  the  care  of 
trunks,  which  we  have  had  to  follow  about  like 
detectives,  at  every  change  of  cars!  As  the 
rain  persisted,  and  there  was  no  chance  of  see- 
ing the  park,  or  the  ghostly  Lady  Howard,  who 
only  plucks  her  historic  blade  of  grass  in  the 

295 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

dead  of  the  night,  we  held  a  serious  consulta- 
tion as  to  whether  we  should  drive  on  to  Chag- 
ford,  as  we  had  planned,  or  take  the  next  train 
to  Exeter.  I  say  a  serious  consultation  quite 
advisedly,  for  anything  more  dejected  than  Dr. 
Mclvor  and  Angela  this  morning  I  have  seldom 
seen.  One  cannot  wonder  much  at  the  Doctor's 
depression,  as  he  leaves  us  at  Exeter  or  South- 
ampton; but  Angela  is  quite  as  dull!  Walter 
says  that  he  is  tired  of  seeing  him  look  like  a 
tombstone,  and  wishes  he  would  settle  the  mat- 
ter with  Angela  and  go  back  to  his  * '  Grampian 
Hills,"  and  feed  his  father's  flocks  for  him. 

"When  I  remark  that  the  settling  of  the  matter 
may  make  Ian  Mclvor  a  sadder  and  a  wiser 
man,  he  shakes  his  head  and  says,  *'It  would  be 
impossible  for  him  to  be  sadder — why  he  even 
doesn't  care  to  fish,  and  lost  a  fine  perch  that 
was  on  his  line  the  other  day  just  from  pure 
heedlessness;"  and  as  for  Angela,  he  says,  with 
a  shake  of  his  wise  head  that  ''the  ways  of 

women  are  past  finding  out,  but "    What 

that  fateful  ''but "  was  meant  to  convey  I 

was  not  destined  to  learn,  as  the  Doctor  and 
Angela,  who  had  been  inquiring  as  to  routes 
and  trains,  appeared  at  this  moment. 

This  is  a  digression,  but  I  am  sure  you  are 
quite  sufficiently  interested  to  pardon  it,  and 

296 


A  HIGHWAY   OF  KINGS 


will  be  pleased  to  know  that  Dr.  Mclvor,  what- 
ever the  state  of  his  heart  may  be,  still  retains 
a  reasonable  share  of  common  sense.  This  he 
showed  by  agreeing  with  me.  Could  there  be 
a  better  proof  of  it  I  The  particular  point  upon 
which  the  Doctor  and  I  agreed  was  that  it  would 
be  foolish  to  drive  eleven  miles  to  Chagford  in 
a  closed  carriage,  an  open  one  being  out  of  the 
question  in  this  pour,  simply  to  spend  a  night 
there,  as  we  had  to  be  here  by  the  tenth  in 
order  to  catch  our  boat  at  Southampton  on 
Wednesday.  So  we  turned  our  backs  on  the 
storied  charms  of  Chagford,  hoping  to  return 
sometime  when  we  have  an  entire  week  to  stop 
at  ''The  Three  Crowns,"  and  to  follow  the 
delusive  Yes  Tor,  as  did  Josephine  Tozier's 
party,  who  found  the  old  town  so  enchanting. 
Before  we  reached  Exeter  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing with  tantalizing  brilliancy,  but  we  need  have 
no  regrets,  for  by  losing  the  drive  to  Chagford 
we  have  gained  more  time  in  this  ancient  city, 
which  has  so  much  to  offer  us  in  its  beautiful 
Cathedral,  its  noble  ruins,  and  above  all  in  its 
historic  associations.  Exeter,  once  the  capital 
of  the  west,  is,  as  Professor  Freeman  tells  us, 
**the  only  English  City  that  can  boast  of  an  un- 
broken existence  for  eighteen  hundred  years, 
the  one  City  in  which  we  can  feel  sure  that 

297 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

human  habitation  and  civic  life  have  never 
ceased  from  the  days  of  the  early  Caesars  to  our 
own.  *  *  *  *  The  City  alike  of  Briton,  Ro- 
man, and  Englishman,  the  one  great  prize  of 
the  Christian  Saxon,  the  City  where  Jupiter 
gave  way  to  Christ,  but  where  Christ  never 
gave  way  to  Woden.  British  Caerwisc,  Roman 
Isca,  West  Saxon  Exeter,  may  well  stand  first 
on  our  roll-call  of  English  Cities.  Others  can 
boast  of  a  fuller  share  of  modern  greatness; 
none  other  can  trace  a  life  so  unbroken  to  so 
remote  a  past." 

As  we  walked  along  High  Street,  past  the 
handsome  old  Guildhall,  and  near  the  ruins  of 
Rougemont  Castle,  Dr.  Mclvor  explained  to  us 
that  this  street  follows  the  old  Roman  road, 
and  that  the  great  mound  on  which  the  ruins 
of  the  castle  stand  was  once  a  British  strong- 
hold. A  highway  of  kings  was  this  street,  that 
is  now  so  full  of  shops  and  trams,  for  we  may 
believe  that  by  this  way  passed  Caesar  and  his 
legions.  King  Arthur  and  his  knights,  Alfred 
the  Great,  William  the  Conqueror,  Edward  the 
Black  Prince,  the  Edwards  who  came  before 
and  after  him,  and  Charles  I  and  his  Queen, 
whose  daughter,  Henrietta,  was  born  in  Bed- 
ford House  near  by. 

The    Princess    Katharine    of    Aragon    also 

298 


A  HIGHWAY  OF  KINGS 


stopped  two  nights  at  the  deanery  in  Exeter 
on  her  ill-starred  journey  from  Plymouth  to 
London,  to  marry  Prince  Arthur,  and  was, 
according  to  the  old  story,  so  annoyed  by  the 
noise  of  the  weathercock  on  the  quaint  church 
of  St.  Mary  Michel  that  it  was  taken  down. 
And  Walter  reminds  us  that  Richard  III  must 
have  been  here,  as  Shakespeare  makes  him  say : 

"Richmond!    When  last  I  was  in  Exeter, 
The  mayor  in  courtesy  show'd  me  the  castle 
And  called  it  Rouge-mont;  at  which  name  I  started, 
Because  a  bard  of  Ireland  told  me  once 
I  should  not  live  long  after  I  saw  Richmond." 

Surely  Exeter  should  have  its  pageants,  for 
no  English  city,  except  London,  can  boast  a 
history  so  varied  and  interesting.  In  addition 
to  all  the  kings  and  princes  who  passed  this 
way,  there  also  journeyed  along  this  old  street 
the  great  sea  captains.  Sir  Francis  Drake  and 
Lord  Nelson,  and  here  came  conquering  Fair- 
fax, Monmouth  going  to  his  death  and  William 
of  Orange  to  his  throne.  Is  n't  it  all  quite  thrill- 
ing, something  that  one  would  not  miss  for  gold 
or  gain?  Walter  found  a  book  of  Professor 
Freeman's  about  Exeter,  in  one  of  the  shops, 
which  we  are  reading  to-night  with  great  in- 
terest. I  mean  that  Walter  and  I  are  reading 
it,  as  Angela  and  the  Doctor  have  gone  out  to 

299 


AN  ENGLISH  HONEYMOON 

see  Eougemont  Castle  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
I  am  beginning  to  feel  as  Walter  does  upon  that 
subject  from  several  little  things  that  have 
happened  to-day  and  then  a  little  French  coup- 
let about  L' Amour  has  been  running  through 
my  mind  most  persistently  all  day: 

"  Qui  que  tu  sois  voiei  ton  maitre, 
II  est,  il  fut  ou  il  doit  etre." 

Has  Angela  really  yielded  to  the  spells  of 
the  little  blind  god? 

''Qui  'en  sahe?"  "Walter  asks,  by  way  of  in- 
troducing another  language  into  the  discussion, 
and  then  he  very  gracefully  reminds  me  that 
Angela  is  not  the  only  woman  of  his  acquaint- 
ance ''who  was  a  long  time  making  up  her 
mind/*  "Which  way  her  happiness  lay,"  I 
said,  finishing  out  his  sentence  so  entirely  to 
his  satisfaction  that  we  stopped  talking  about 
Angela  and  fell  to  pleasant  castle-building, 
while  Walter  smoked  his  cigar  and  I  waited  for 
the  return  of  the  wanderers. 

The  night  was  too  glorious  to  spend  in  doors, 
and  we  finally  started  to  see  Eougemont  Castle 
by  the  light  of  the  moon.  On  our  way  there 
we  passed  Angela  and  Dr.  Mclvor,  on  the  other 
side  of  High  Street,  but  they  were  talking  so 
earnestly  that  they  never  saw  ns. 

300 


A   HIGHWAY   OF   KINGS 


September  10th. 

We  have  changed  all  of  our  plans,  Mar- 
garet dear,  and  are  going  to  London  to-night 
instead  of  to  Southampton.  Why,  I  will  tell 
you,  but,  as  Angela  always  says,  I  must  begin 
at  the  beginning  of  the  story. 

As  we  had  only  walked  around  and  about 
the  Cathedral  yesterday  to  enjoy  its  beautiful 
architecture,  Walter  and  the  girls  and  I  went 
there  this  morning  immediately  after  breakfast. 
At  the  last  moment  Angela  concluded  to  go 
with  Dr.  Mclvor  to  see  St.  Mary  Arches,  which 
he  thinks  much  more  interesting  than  the 
Cathedral. 

The  minstrel  gallery  on  the  north  wall  of 
Exeter  Cathedral  is  said  to  be  the  finest  in 
England.  It  is  much  more  beautiful  than  the 
gallery  at  Wells,  and  is  so  rich  in  its  carving 
and  decoration  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
conceive  of  anything  of  its  kind  more  lovely. 
The  twelve  angels  in  the  niches,  bearing  differ- 
ent musical  instruments,  are  exquisitely  carved, 
and  the  corbelled  heads  beneath  are  those  of 
Edward  III  and  his  queen,  Philippa.  I  am  send- 
ing you  a  photograph  of  this  gallery,  which  you 
will  love,  as  I  do. 

Christine  was  perfectly  delighted  to  find  a 
301 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

window,  near  the  west  entrance,  in  memory  of 
Richard  Doddridge  Blackmore,  the  author  of 
her  favorite  Lorna  Doone.  Under  the  window 
is  a  white  marble  tablet  which  bears,  with  titles 
and  dates,  the  following  inscription: 

"  Insight  and  humor,  and  the  rythmic  roll 
Of  antique  lore,  his  fertile  fancies  sway'd, 
And  with  their  various  eloquence  array'd 
His  sterling  English,  pure  and  clear  and  whole." 

A.  J.  M. 

"He  added  Christian  courtesy  and  the  humility  of  all 
thoughtful  minds  to  a  certain  grand  and  glorious  gift  of 
radiating  humanity."  Cbaddock  Nowell. 

Is  it  not  a  most  lovely  inscription  and  one 
well  worthy  of  a  man  who  has  given  so  much 
pure  and  healthful  pleasure  to  the  world? 

"We  had  just  turned  from  the  Blackmore 
tablet  and  were  walking  toward  the  choir  when 
we  saw  Angela  and  Dr.  Mclvor  enter  by  the 
south  door.  They  paused  a  moment  on  the 
threshold,  where  the  sun  shone  upon  Angela's 
blonde  head,  lighting  up  every  thread  to  purest 
gold.  As  she  came  forward  it  seemed  as  if  she 
brought  sunshine  with  her  into  the  darkness  of 
the  Cathedral,  which  is,  I  hope,  a  happy  omen 
that  joy  and  peace  may  come  to  her  in  large 
measure,  for  of  course  we  knew,  at  once,  that 
something  had  happened. 

302 


A   HIGHWAY  OF  KINGS 


Walter  did  the  right  thing,  the  one  thing  that 
men  always  do  on  such  occasions,  which  was 
to  shake  the  Doctor's  hand  vigorously.  I  really 
don't  know  what  I  said  to  Angela,  for  I  sud- 
denly felt  strangely  guilty  and  ashamed  of 
what  I  had  thought  of  Dr.  Mclvor's  not  being 
good  enough  or  handsome  enough  for  her.  In 
a  moment  all  my  small  and  petty  objections 
seemed  to  fall  away,  and  looking  into  his  frank, 
manly  face  I  felt  sure  that  Angela  had  chosen 
wisely.  As  we  walked  home  I  said  something 
to  Angela  about  her  seriousness  of  late,  and  of 
my  not  having  spoken  of  it,  because  I  thought 
that  she  was  feeling  sorry  for  Dr.  Mclvor,  who 
was  to  leave  us  so  soon ;  upon  which  she  turned 
her  radiant  face  to  me  and  said,  with  her  own 
charming  frankness,  ''Why  Z.,  dear,  how  could 
you  think  that?  I  was  sorry  for  myself,  be- 
cause I  thought  that  Dr.  Mclvor  didn't  care 
for  me." 

Was  not  that  just  like  Angela's  unexpected- 
ness? 

''And  as  you  thought  that  he  did  not  care 
for  you,  and  as  he  was  quite  sure  that  you  did 
not  care  for  him,  how  in  the  world  did  you  ever 
come  to  an  understanding?"  I   asked. 

"I  think,"  said  Angela,  with  a  mischievous 
twinkle  in  her  eyes,  "that  it  was  through  the 

303 


AN  ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

intervention  of  Christine's  pony.  I  admired 
it  so  much  that  Dr.  Mclvor  offered  to  go  the 
next  day  and  catch  one  for  me.  I  said  that  I 
wouldn't  accept  a  pony  from  him  if  he  caught 
a  dozen.  This  seemed  to  hurt  his  feelings, 
which  was  perfectly  absurd,  as  he  couldn't  ex- 
pect me  to  accept  ponies  and  things  from  him, 
not  being  a  child  like  Christine;  and  then  he 
was  very  high  and  mighty,  and  I  undertook  to 
bring  him  down  a  peg  or  two." 

''And  you  succeeded,  between  you,  in  being 
very  miserable.'* 

"Yes,  and  last  night,  when  he  began  talking 
ahout  going  back  to  York,  and  the  many  miles 
that  would  separate  us,  when  I  am  in  my  own 
home,  I  began  to  think  that  he  cared  a  little, 
and  so  we  made  up  our  quarrel  by  the  light  of 
the  moon." 

The  dear  little  pony,  troublesome  as  it  may 
be  to  get  him  home,  had  his  hour  of  usefulness. 
I  fancy,  although  Angela  did  not  say  so,  that  she 
was  angry  because  Dr.  Mclvor  did  not  offer  her 
the  pony,  at  first,  and  then  being  provoked  at 
herself  for  caring  at  all,  she  gave  him  the 
benefit  of  her  ill  humors.  It  all  seems  very  silly 
and  childish;  but  lovers  can  make  a  quarrel 
over  anything,  no  matter  how  trifling.  Every- 
thing is  settled  now,  and  they  are  as  happy  as 

304 


A   HIGHWAY   OF   KINGS 


two  birds  on  a  bough,  but  I  am  thinking  of 
the  time  of  reckoning  with  the  parents. 

Angela  has  been  planning  to  meet  her  father 
and  mother  in  Paris,  but  as  they  are  now  due 
in  London  we  have  decided  to  go  there  this 
afternoon.  I  must  really  give  an  account  of 
my  stewardship, — our  stewardship,  I  should 
say,  for  although  Walter  calls  me  a  match- 
maker, I  tell  him  that  he  has  had  more  to  do 
with  this  particular  match  than  I  have,  as  he 
and  Dr.  Mclvor  have  been  fast  friends  from 
the  first  and  it  was  he  who  encouraged  the 
Doctor  to  join  us. 

I  am  finishing  my  letter  hurriedly,  as  I  wish 
you  to  have  the  news  as  speedily  as  possible. 
Angela  sends  her  love  and  says  she  will  write 
to  you  soon,  and  that  of  all  things  she  wishes 
you  and  Allan  to  know  her  Ian  Mclvor.  How 
much  prettier  Ian  is  than  plain  John!  The 
common  tie  of  Scotch  blood  should  make  Allan 
and  the  Doctor  good  friends.  You  will  doubt- 
less have  an  opportunity  to  meet  him  soon,  as 
Walter  has  invited  him  to  spend  Christmas  with 
us  at  The  Gables.  May  we  not  count  upon  you 
and  Allan  to  join  us  and  complete  the  party? 

I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  Miss  Cassandra, 
telling  me  that  she  and  Lydia  will  sail  with  us 
from  Cherbourg  on  the  twenty-fifth.    As  Archie 

20  305 


AN   ENGLISH   HONEYMOON 

will  probably  be  one  of  our  party,  Walter  al- 
ready predicts  another  engagement,  and  in  view 
of  my  "match-making  proclivities,''  as  he  is 
pleased  to  call  my  acceptance  of  this  match  of 
his  making,  he  says  that  he  shall  have  to  guard 
Christine  and  Lisa  against  my  wiles. 

And  now  adieu,  as  we  shall  soon  be  on  our 
way  to  London.  Some  of  these  days  we  shall 
be  coming  over  to  Scotland  to  visit  Angela  in 
her  Highland  castle.  Dr.  Mclvor  is  a  laird  in 
his  own  country,  and  has  quite  a  long  string  of 
titles.  Isn't  it  odd  that  this  ancient  highway 
of  kings  should  have  become  for  us  a  byway  of 
lovers! — ''and  of  Honejonooners  as  well,"  adds 
Angela,  to  whom  I  have  just  read  this  last  par- 
agraph; Honeymooners  being  her  latest  name 
for  Walter  and  me.  She  insists  that  she  and 
Dr.  Mclvor  saw  us  last  night  when  we  were  on 
our  way  to  Rougemont  Castle,  but  says  that  we 
were  too  deep  in  conversation  to  notice  them. 
From  which  you  see  that  she  has  recovered 
her  spirits  and  is  once  more  our  teasing,  charm- 
ing Angela.  And  how  she  puzzles,  fascinates 
and  bewilders  her  M.D. !  Again,  au  revoir, 
until  we  meet  in  the  land  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes. 

Your  always  devoted, 

Zelphine. 


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